When The Clocks Stopped
by Vaysh11
Summary: A catastrophe has hit the world: all the clocks stopped, time has come to a halt. Harry Potter's curse-breaking team is part of the quickly formed Order of the Hummingbird. They need the expertise of the Time Master who is no other than Draco Malfoy.
1. Chapter 1

**When The Clocks Stopped**

*** * ***

It happened on the sixth day of June, thirteen years after the infamous Harry Potter had vanquished evil Lord Voldemort in Hogwarts' Great Hall.

In one of the castle's ground-level rooms, Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank reached for the small carriage clock that was standing on her mantelpiece. It was square-shaped, made from chased brass, and so small that it fit completely into her sturdy hands. The clock had belonged to Alastor Moody once. After the old Auror's untimely death, it had been passed on to the school's current teacher of Care for Magical Creatures. Not many people knew that Wilhelmina had been with the Aurors in her younger days. Moody had been her teacher at the Ministry. Perhaps this was why he'd felt she was a deserving choice for the odd trinket. Or more likely, he'd been reminded of Wilhelmina's Austrian heritage when he'd read the fine engraving on the bottom of the clock, _Zoller & Oldenburg, Wien_.

As Wilhelmina caught the clock by its brass handle to take it with her as she packed her trunk to move to number twelve, Grimmauld Place, for the summer, she felt the mainspring snap and the well-oiled oscillator slow down. Moody's old carriage clock came to a sudden and unexpected halt.

oOo

Almost a quarter after nine, Molly Weasley stepped into the living room of the Burrow, the dishes from dinner all cleaned, dried and stacked away. It was only Arthur and her living here now. Molly looked at the old grandfather clock in the corner. Its eight hands pointed in various directions -- the shed, the living room, Shell Cottage, Carpathian Dragon Research Centre, the Ministry of Magic (Level Five), Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes (backroom), down-under.

Molly smiled when she thought about her dragon-taming son and her only daughter, the international Quidditch star. It had taken her years to accept that two of her children were gay, especially Ginny who'd always been such a distant girl. Molly had hoped to get closer to her when Ginny became a mother herself. Now she was further away than any of her other children, playing for the Thundalarra Thunderers in Australia as one of the best Chasers of the world.

Molly opened the large window, to let the evening breeze into the room. Arthur's dark figure appeared from the shed and she called out, "Come on in!" As she watched him walk towards the Burrow, the grandfather clock gave a low chime, a sound she'd never heard before. Molly turned around to a frantic whir, then a screeching sound, like metal torn and scraping. She stepped closer, quick but carefully, to look at the clock, just as Arthur came in through the front door. He was at her side moments after Molly's startled scream.

The eight hands of the clock had all slid into each other, crushing the fine brass points and shattering the porcelain inlays. They all pointed towards one direction. Molly shivered when she read the words, scribbled in her own flowery hand-writing, Charmed decades ago: _the living room clock._

oOo

Sirius Black cast a glance at the old watch lying on the window-sill beside his desk. Eleven minutes after nine: time to wake Harry and get him ready for the job tonight. It was a simple busting, a cursed Muggle train stationed at King's Cross, with possibly an infestation of Chizpurfles sapping its magic. The Pest Division of the Ministry had been alarmed but they could not enter the train and Harry's curse-breaking team had been called.

Sirius looked over the houses of Grimmauld Place, absently stroking the worn leather band of the watch. The familiar pain in his right leg flared up and he shifted his weight. Pain in his crippled leg usually meant a change in the weather, as did the bright shades of red and purple in the sky over London. Harry would be lucky not to get drenched on the job, once the inevitable rain set in. Sirius thought about whom to send with Harry as back-up. Not Zakhar -- they had been fighting again, and it was never a good idea to send fighting lovers on a job. Especially not Harry, whose temper was explosive at the best of times. Bill then, even though he'd just returned home to his family. But he'd be good for the job, with his knowledge of Muggles and Muggle culture.

Not that Sirius expected any dealings with Muggles at King's Cross. But as Mad-Eye Moody had always said, _Better to have all your goalposts covered_. Thoughts of Moody brought him to thoughts of Lupin. At moments like this, when he was up alone in his room, the house all quiet, Sirius felt the dead of the war closing in on him. He knew he was brooding too much. Merlin, he'd even visited Lupin's grave while the team was gone. Sirius had wanted so desperately to fight -- and die -- with him, with all of them, in that last battle in Hogwarts' Great Hall against Voldemort. But of course, he'd been stuck in a small hospital on the Solomon Islands, unable to walk more than a dozen steps, let alone fight in a battle of life and death. It was a wonder, he reminded himself, that he'd recovered at all from Bellatrix' Curse. Long months of his life he'd spent in a coma, years in recovery. And yes, he should be grateful to the healers, to Harry -- for having made this life possible for him.

So Lupin's watch would go to Teddy when Sirius died, no matter that he looked so much like his mother. But he was a nice enough kid and Harry loved him.

_Harry ..._ Sometimes, when he looked at his godson, Sirius felt his chest expand with pride and love -- and it made up for all the pointless longing for someone he could never have now. He ran his fingertips over the glass of Lupin's watch, marvelled at the tiny planets circling the edge of the clock-face. Softly the seconds ticked away, each stroke moving the coloured spheres a bit further. Sirius took the watch in his hand, letting its regular pulse calm him. As dusk settled over Grimmauld Place, the ticking abruptly stopped, like the beating of a heart, stilled forever by the Killing Curse.

oOo

All Harry Potter could see in the dark were the two luminous hands of his old Muggle alarm clock. Without his glasses he could not tell what time it was, he just saw the pale green shimmer which told him where to reach for to bring the clock closer to his face. Thirteen minutes after nine. The room seemed too dark for it to be that early in the evening. Harry put the alarm clock down and got up to step towards the windows. Then he remembered that he'd pulled the heavy curtains closed when he'd lain down for a nap this afternoon.

The team had only returned home this morning. They'd spent the last ten days in a small wizarding village in Siberia where astonishingly well-preserved human bodies had been discovered in the deep ice. A Contact Curse had been spreading like wildfire. The journey back to London by several Portkeys had been exhausting, but Sirius had another job lined up for him tonight.

Harry opened the curtains and looked out onto Grimmauld Place. The dark blue sky was streaked with the last beams of a fiery sunset low on the horizon. Harry quickly walked over to the nightstand, grabbed his wand and ignited the candles. In half an hour the team would gather for the briefing, fortified with steaming mugs of coffee. Over the years Sirius' huge upstairs room had become the home base of Harry's team, much like the kitchen had once been the base of the Order of the Phoenix. Sirius kept all the paper work up there in an enormous filing cabinet, and from his large desk, cluttered with books and parchments, he painstakingly planned out every one of their curse-breaking missions.

Sirius better not team him up with Zak tonight, Harry thought as he pulled his trousers on. For a moment, he stared at the leaping Chimaeras and burning serpents that seemed to slither up and down his arms. He'd met Zak two years ago in a Polish tattoo parlour, where Harry had obtained the last of his tattoos. Zakhar Karkaroff, son of the former headmaster of Durmstrang, had joined the team shortly after he'd been invited into Harry's bed. Not the best of his choices, Harry had long since realised. No matter that Zak was a powerful wizard whose expertise in potions the team had badly needed at the time. But he was too young, too bloody ambitious. _Too much in love,_ a voice niggled in Harry's head, and God, yes, Zak was too infatuated with Harry, when all Harry could give him was a cock up his arse. If Sirius wanted him to work with Zak tonight, Harry would have to tell him that he had broken up with Zak in the Siberian steppe. Bad timing, but Harry would not drag this thing out until it interfered with his work. The team came first.

He smoothed the sweater over his chest, then looked at the old alarm clock again. It still said thirteen minutes after nine. Odd. For all these years the clock had been working, ever since he'd used magic to replace the Muggle battery. Harry picked it up and held it to his ear, listening for the quiet vibration that usually came every four seconds. Nothing. The bloody thing had to be broken. Harry was reminded of his childhood when repairing the alarm clock had been one of his annual summer chores, with no magic allowed to him outside of Hogwarts.

He put the clock down and opened the door, wondering if someone had started up the old coffee-maker in the kitchen. Just then Sirius' voice called from above.

oOo

A couple of oddly clad tramps -- one pointing with a crooked stick into the station's rafters -- first noted that the huge round clock above the entrance of platform number one of King's Cross station had come to a halt at exactly thirteen minutes after nine. The shorter of the two cast-irons hands had stopped two markers before the old-fashioned III, whereas the longer hand remained immovable at a place a bit above the red-lettered 21 (or the black IX, depending on how you looked at it).

The station's electrician suspected a glitch in the old clock's wiring, but after an entire night of futile repairs -- of all the clocks, even the tower clock on top of King's Cross -- he and his colleagues gave up.

By then, the news was out. Every clock, watch and timepiece in the city of London, and indeed all over Britain, had simply stopped moving forward. After a secret emergency memorandum from the Prime Minister's office was leaked to the press, the unthinkable was announced in the morning news: a full decade after the start of this new millennium, a computer bug, similar to but not the same as the much-feared Y2K, had finally hit the world.

*** * ***

A shadow was moving silently through the murky street, and for a moment Harry was reminded of the night years ago in Little Whinging when he had mistaken Sirius for the Grim. There was no mistaking this shadow, though. Wolves had returned to Britain, appeared out of nowhere, and they had brought with them an icy cold which turned the gentle London rain to snow. Snow in June!

He cast a quick glance at Sirius who'd put on his pin-striped maroon robes. He looked elegant in them, with his long curls bound with a black silk ribbon and tucked underneath the collar. Even the black-lacquered walking stick seemed more like a symbol of power than the clutch it was.

"The visitor's entrance is down this street," Harry said, trying not to hurry. Sirius couldn't walk much faster. It was bad enough that they had to enter the Ministry of Magic through the red telephone box. But the Floo network had been shut down shortly after the Day The Clocks Stopped, when increasingly people ended up in fireplaces miles away from where they intended to go. Or disappeared entirely. Portkeying had become wonky, too, and the Ministry had even banned Apparating into and within the building.

"Let's get there quick," Sirius said, as he took longer strides, leaning heavily on his cane. "I don't like the look of that wolf pack over there."

Harry turned to where Sirius'd gestured. The shadow had materialised into a majestic grey wolf, followed by three smaller ones. Their eyes glittered in the dim daylight. "Do you think they're werewolves?" he asked.

Sirius shook his head. "Just wolves. But they will attack us if we don't get off the street soon. They smell hungry." He sniffed into the cold air. Harry was reminded of Padfoot. Sirius hadn't been able to Transfigure himself since he'd been injured, but he hadn't lost the dog's keen senses.

By now, they should have reached the corner of the small street leading to the telephone box. But as much as Harry kept looking out for the red front of the pub and the sign with the feisty Admiral on it, all he could see were small, deserted buildings. Finally he turned at a corner that seemed familiar enough, even if there was no pub.

The _Prophet_ was running long articles about how magic offered protection against the changes that had befallen the world. Which was just bollocks, as far as Harry was concerned. The catastrophe affected all of them, the wizarding and the Muggle world. Rumours had it that the Minister for Magic met daily with Britain's Prime Minister. Sirius had the entire curse-breaking team working night and day on disappearances and on simple spells gone horribly wrong. But one thing Harry knew for certain: they were not fighting a curse.

Which was why he didn't understand why the Minister had asked him for this meeting. It was not like Harry Potter could save the wizarding world with a simple _Expelliarmus_ this time around. It was barely thirty-six hours since the clocks stopped. By now everybody knew that they were up against something much more powerful, much more insidious than Voldemort's Dark magic.

Sirius had talked Harry into going to at least listen to what the Minister had to say. They had one half of the team come back from Geneva. Angelina, Bill and Zak stayed in Switzerland with the international rescue mission, trying to contain the Large Hadron Collider with the combined power of magic and Muggle physics. The machine had started up the Day The Clocks Stopped, without any human intervention, sending high-energy proton beams both clockwise and counter-clockwise into the underground circuit. The enormous machine should have shut down automatically, but it hadn't. Wild theories abounded about what would happen if they didn't get it under control. Most popular was the one where a huge black hole opened up and sucked the world away into a cosmic vacuum cleaner. Muggles were still fed the story about a computer virus doing all the damage, but that lie was rapidly growing thin. None of the Muggle scientists that Harry'd talked to in Geneva had believed it. Instead, they talked about time itself being _fractured_, about the fourth dimension collapsing into the thee-dimensional world. They talked about _the end of life as we know it._ Some had left. There were rumours of suicides.

"Is that the telephone box you were talking about?" Sirius halted, panting heavily. The short walk had clearly exhausted him.

Harry nodded uncertainly. It was the same red telephone box but the grey wall behind it had none of the colourful graffiti that he remembered. The box itself looked new, as if it had been erected just days ago. The glass panes were intact and shining, and when Harry and Sirius stood squashed together inside the box, he found the telephone apparatus firmly attached to the wall. The whole thing looked as if they were the first wizards to ever use the Ministry's visitors' entrance. Harry reached for the receiver, dialled the M.A.G.I.C. number. To his relief it was the same cool female voice greeting them.

_Emergency meeting with the Minister,_ it said on the silver badges coming out of the chute. Once they'd pinned them to their robes, the lift took them down into the Ministry, away from the roaming wolves and the snow.

*** * ***

Gawain Robards seemed a rather unremarkable wizard, considering he'd headed the Auror Division for more than a decade before he became Minister for Magic. His boyish features and small pot-belly made him look like a scholar and the gold-rimmed glasses, which he sported since he'd come to office, rather emphasised the Minister's aura of well-meaning incompetence. Harry had learned the hard way that those innocent looks were deceiving. Robards was a Slytherin through and through. If he wanted something, he'd use whatever means at his disposal to get it. It was their luck, really, that he did it all for the good of wizarding Britain and not for some megalomaniac Dark wizard dabbling in pure-blood supremacy. Twice now Robards had talked Sirius into taking on an assignment that he knew Harry would hate, and both times it had to do with cleaning up messes that Magical Law Enforcement had left behind.

A stern, red-robed Auror had lead Sirius and Harry down into the Department of Mysteries. Harry stepped cautiously into the sparkling light. He had to squint as he looked over the clocks hanging everywhere on the walls, over the rows and rows of desks full of timepieces of every imaginable colour and form. For a moment he wondered what was wrong, then it hit him: a hushed silence lay over the room. Not one of the thousands of clocks was ticking. No chimes, no bells, nothing. As he followed Sirius down the narrow aisle between the desks, the light grew dimmer. It was not much, nothing that would require a _Lumos_, but the diamond-sparkling brightness darkened as if a shadow had fallen over the room.

Harry looked ahead to the bell jar. A group of Ministry officials stood around it, Robards among them. Back towards the wall, four Unspeakables were whispering amongst themselves. The lone figure of a tall witch in blue robes leaned against one of the desks. Then the Minister saw them.

"Mr Black, Mr Potter," he called out, "do join us." He waved them closer.

"I'm glad you could make it, Mr Potter," he said and shook hands, first with Sirius, then with Harry. Sirius was in charge of new jobs and deal negotiations for the team, so Harry stood back, letting him do the talking. It was a role he'd grown accustomed to. Sirius simply was the best at what he was doing.

Harry recognised Gemynd Radford, the current Ministry Obliviator. She worked closely with Hermione at St. Mungo's, and he'd met her on several occasions. He greeted her with a nod, which seemed to startle the black-haired witch out of her contemplation of the bell jar. She turned towards him, her blue eyes wide with fear. Harry gave her a questioning look, but she responded only with a slight shake of her head.

"I know you have little time," the Minister said. "But I wanted you to see this before we talk." Robards, who usually commanded chatter and small-talk with enviable ease, didn't say another word as he pointed towards the bell jar.

Harry stepped towards Sirius' side and looked into the glittering winds. At first, it seemed like he remembered it -- the tiny egg shimmered a brilliant white as it rose, carried by the upwardly spiralling currents. Then it cracked and a long beak protruded through the shell. Within seconds a hummingbird hatched, its feathers emerald green, its breast a mottled grey, its wings and tail tipped with red. It soared towards the top of the jar, and there, as the bird was just about to start on the downward current, Harry noticed that something was wrong.

Those green wings were flapping too slowly, nothing like a hummingbird's rapid flutter, and the bird almost tumbled against the soap-bubble glass of the jar. One of its tiny feet was clubfooted, a bunched-up mass of skin and claw. Then Harry saw its eyes -- they were opaque, as if covered by translucent skin. The bird was blind. Sirius gasped at Harry's side, he must have noticed it, too. They watched as the hummingbird's feathers grew soft and bedraggled on the downward cycle, and it once more turned into an egg. But the egg looked different than before. Red veins formed on the white shell, as if blood threatened to seep from it. It had hardly formed when it cracked open again already, releasing the hummingbird, but naked still and too weak to move. Its head leaned heavily against the cracked shell, as it sprouted feathers of a dull brownish colour. It was painful to see the tiny bird struggle to spread its wings, trying to complete another cycle. Gemynd Radford and a bearded Ministry official turned away, unable to watch the torturous re-birthing of the hummingbird.

"How long has this been going on?" Sirius asked, his voiced scratchy.

Robards remained quiet. One of the Unspeakables, a small, elderly witch, replied, "Since the Day The --"

"Clocks Stopped," Harry interrupted.

The Unspeakable nodded. "We tried everything we could think of to keep the bird moving through its cycles. This is one of the Mysteries, you understand ..."

_This is Time ..._ Harry recalled the awe in Hermione's voice as they'd been here before, on that ill-fated rescue mission for Sirius which had almost cost all of them their lives.

"... it's only a reflection of the world, a powerful magical reflection, but reflection nonetheless. Time moves in cyclical seasons. It is repetition, but it is also change. Like the hummingbird in the bell jar, who is always different when it hatches from its egg. Different colours, different shapes. There is no predicting what change time will bring, only that change will come. But this --" She pointed at the tiny brown bird who flapped helplessly in the glittering winds. "This is impossible, you see. It cannot be happening." Her voice was shaking and she took a deep breath to collect herself. "This is Time itself changing. And we have no idea what that means. But the Mystery's magic is falling apart. It's only a matter of ... of ..." She stopped, then closed her eyes.

"A matter of _time,_" Robards finished her sentence with a firm voice. "And that's why we've called you." He was speaking to Sirius, but looking at Harry. "We need to act fast. The Department of Mysteries has done all they could. We need more people, wizards and witches with new ideas, with dedication." He quickly looked around. "Our plan is to form a new order. Something like the Order of the Phoenix, only this time it's not You-know-who whom we're fighting, but ... this." Robards pointed at the bell jar where the hummingbird was plunging to the bottom, to be enclosed into a bluish egg that seemed much too small for the half-way transformed bird. "This," the Minister repeated. "An order to fight the cause of this. An order to set Time right again. We can call it the Order of the Hummingbird or whatever strikes our fancy." He smiled, but it was a wistful smile that did not reach his pale blue eyes.

"And who all would be part of this ... order?" Sirius asked, voicing the very question that was on Harry's mind.

Robards made a gesture that encompassed all present. "Us here. Specialists on magical accidents and catastrophes, magical transportation experts, the head of Obliviators Headquarters, trained Time-Watchers from the Department of Mysteries." He nodded towards the Unspeakables. "And experts from outside the Ministry." He waved towards the blue-robed witch. "Liriel Potter, from _Potter & Sons_, the clock-makers." Then the Minister turned towards them. "And hopefully you. Harry Potter. And your team, of course."

Harry looked over to his namesake from the famous London clock-maker dynasty, and the witch winked at him. She seemed calmer than all the officials gathered here to form this strange order. Calmer and much more relaxed. Harry would have considered her for his team right away.

"And the Time Master," said a dark voice from where the Unspeakables stood. The voice seemed familiar to Harry. A tall man with fine red hair stepped towards the bell jar. For a moment Harry didn't recognise him, then he remembered his first Quidditch matches in Hogwarts. Higgs, Terence Higgs, the Slytherin Seeker at the time. Harry hadn't known that he had made it into the ranks of the Unspeakables.

"The Time Master, yes, yes." Robards' tone of voice had gone from calm to annoyed. "He hasn't been very cooperative so far."

"We need him." This came from Gemynd Radford.

"And who is this uncooperative Time Master?" Harry asked. Sirius glared at him for jumping into the conversation. Always afraid Harry would lose his temper, when Harry was just asking for information that everybody but him seemed to have. He put his hand soothingly on his godfather's arm.

"The young Malfoy, of course", the Minister said with a sigh. "Returned all our owls, wouldn't receive an official delegation from the Ministry. I went to Malfoy Manor in person, off the records, naturally. The bloody house-elf wouldn't even let me enter that crumbling mansion of theirs." He made a clucking noise with his tongue, the only sign of exasperation that Harry'd ever seen from Robards.

Last Harry'd heard Malfoy was off somewhere in Europe -- enjoying a life of luxury and ease on one of the Malfoy's many estates, for all that Harry knew. They hadn't spoken a word since the war trials, seen each other twice during the last years, both times at the Minister's Midwinter Ball, where everybody went. He'd had no idea that Malfoy was back in England permanently. And -- a _Time Master?_ Malfoy?

"He's got himself quite the reputation with the Esteemed Society of Arithmancers," Robards said. "And my colleagues here seem to think he'd be an asset to our new order."

"He would." Higgs surreptitiously glanced over to Gemynd Radford, which made Harry wonder how exactly Malfoy could help them with this mess.

"One moment," he said. Sirius shot him a glance that said loud and clear, _Shut it, I do the talking,_ but Harry didn't care. "I won't have Draco Malfoy on any team or order or whatever that I'm supposed to be a part of. He's always been enamoured with the Dark. And we don't know what's behind this." Harry gestured towards the bell jar. "Even a Time Master is not beyond suspicion. I certainly don't have to remind you that even the Minister for Magic fell for Voldemort during the war?"

It was satisfying to see the older wizards and witches still twitch as he pronounced the name. Robards, however, was unimpressed. He stared at Harry for a long moment, then chuckled softly.

"I see what you mean, Terence, about it needing Harry Potter to lure Draco Malfoy out of hiding," he said.

Old anger stabbed through Harry. These people would not play their sly games with him. He felt Sirius' hand on his shoulder before he could take a threatening step towards the Minister.

"He's right about Malfoy, Harry." Sirius sounded calmer than Harry thought he could manage under the circumstances. And if he was not mistaken, there was a touch of amusement in his voice. Was Sirius in on this, too? And what the fuck did _he_ know about Malfoy?

"I won't do this," he whispered. "I won't involve my team in something like this."

"Let's hear them out first, shall we?" Sirius pressed his hand down heavily, willing Harry to calm down. "And you should talk to Hermione about Malfoy. It's been years, Harry. People change."

They talked for an hour. Harry only spoke again when he was asked. He watched and listened. Watched Sirius -- who was seated on a stool that he'd Transfigured one of the clocks into -- smoothly negotiating the team's participation in the effort. Listened to Robards, and the longer Harry listened the clearer he could hear the Minister's despair underneath the composed façade. In the end, the new order was called the Order of the Hummingbird, as by the Minister's poetic suggestion. And Harry agreed -- reluctantly, mostly to show Sirius that he was above old schoolboys' grudges -- to try persuading Draco Malfoy to join them.

*** * ***

"What's a Time Master?"

Harry sat in the oval common room of the Janus Thickey Ward. On the seat before him, Hermione was busy operating a magically altered slide projector. At four in the afternoon the windows were charmed to show a moonless night. The room was dark but for the glimmering night-globes hovering just underneath the ceiling.

"You have been talking to the Minister, then?" Hermione leaned back, an amused tone in her voice.

Colourful slides flashed in rapid succession on the wall. Harry could barely recognise what was on the pictures. The sea, it seemed; a long sandy beach, with people walking on it. Green waves and an azure picture-book sky above them. Women in bathing suits. A little dark-skinned girl with a pink and yellow beach-ball. The same girl, older, dark curls in pigtails. The waves again, the slides changing so fast, it became a blur of blue and sand and green.

Hermione turned back towards Harry, so they could talk quietly without disturbing the patients in the room. "Will you do it?" she asked.

"Er ..." Apparently everybody had known about the secret meeting. And of course Hermione would have known. For all that Harry knew, it could have been her who'd suggested Harry's team to Robards. Or more likely she'd suggested them to Gemynd Radford, who then told the Minister. "Well, the team has joined the New Order."

"And will you get Malfoy to join, too?" She looked way too smug.

"Was that your brilliant idea, Hermione?" Harry felt anger rising within him. "To put Radford, or Higgs or whoever up to make me go out to Wiltshire and remind the bloody git that now would be a brilliant time to pay back the debts he owes to the wizarding world?"

Hermione shrugged, glancing over the patients who stared at the slides on the wall. "Gemynd told me about the Minister's plan to form an emergency task force. And as for Malfoy ..." In the blue flashes from the slides, her face look pale as she turned to Harry. "When I saw him last, I had a feeling he's done his share of paying back."

"When did you see Draco Malfoy?" And why had he never heard about it?

"He's been here."

In the chair next to Hermione sat a woman with eyes shining dark as blackberries. She kept throwing glances at them, while she rocked back and forth, clearly not interested in the pictures on the wall.

"Here at St. Mungo's, you mean?" Harry asked.

Hermione nodded. "I can't tell you much, because of confidentiality. But I talked to him, perhaps a year after his mother died."

_Killed herself,_ Harry's mind readily provided. All the gory details had been revealed on the front pages of the _Daily Prophet_. "You never told me about this."

"It didn't seem important at the time. You were away that year, apprenticing with the goblins in Estonia."

The woman with the blackberry eyes twitched, then started to get up.

"Mrs Touré," Hermione said softly, "will you please stay? Just for another five minutes."

The woman sat again with a sigh. "But I don't know any of these people on the wall, sweetheart."

"Just five minutes, okay?"

Mrs Touré rolled her eyes at Harry as he shrugged behind Hermione's back. She was one of the more aware patients here in the ward. Most days she recognised Harry from his numerous visits, even remembered his name, although she never connected it to the Boy Who Lived and the war.

Hermione was taking notes in her little blue book, so Harry looked over to the others in the room, sitting in rows of chairs. In the dim light he could make out at least two dozen patients. They were glued to the flashing images on the wall, or asleep or distracted by something that likely only held interest for themselves. At the back of the room stood Avery, the resident Death Eater of the ward, his face haggard and pale underneath a five o'clock shadow. His body was skeleton-thin, barely covered by a threadbare set of black robes, as he refused with an odd pride to wear the hospital garb. Around his ankles, Harry could see the shackles that restricted Avery's movements.

All of the patients here suffered from permanent spell damage. Hermione's area of expertise was memory loss and damage from Obliviation. _Associative Therapy_ the daily sessions with the flashing slides were called. Something about familiar images unlocking memories hidden deeply within the unconscious. It was still experimental, Hermione had explained. She had brought the Muggle therapy to St. Mungo's, with much success.

"The session is almost over," Hermione whispered to him.

"It's okay." Harry put his hand on her shoulder. "I like watching your patients."

Hermione gave him a wide smile. Sometimes it scared Harry how passionately dedicated she was to her patients. If she saw even the slightest chance of healing one, she forgot everything else, dates with friends, meetings with superiors. It was during times like these that Harry would drop by unannounced, to get her out for some Indian dinner, or even just take her away from the ward, for a cup of the strong coffee that St. Mungo's refectory was famous for.

Harry knew that Hermione had not left the hospital since the Day The Clocks Stopped. Worry lines were etched deeply into her forehead. Only last week she had taken him down to the Second Floor that was swamped with new patients. The vanishing sickness was spreading through Diagon Alley, a highly contagious disease. The bed space in the Quarantine Station had been doubled over the last fortnight. Magical draining seemed to be rampant, and wizards and witches came from all over Britain to seek help from the renowned healers at St. Mungo's. And increasingly people came with progressive memory loss. Harry was certain that a fair number of the patients sitting with them in the room had been in full grasp of their mental faculties less than two weeks ago.

Gently he moved a lock of Hermione's hair back from where it had fallen into her face when she'd written into her book. She gave him a surprised look. Harry just shook his head. They never touched much, but now he felt his throat constrict. They'd been through so much together. The tattoo of smoke-rimmed flames circling his wrist seemed to reach for his fingers -- a trick of the eye in the dim light, or perhaps part of the tattoo's magic. He cleared his throat and looked ahead where pictures of an old city flashed on the wall.

"So, um ... a Time Master, Hermione? What does he do?" he asked, stroking Hermione's upper arm, then taking his hand away.

She looked at him curiously, then said, "Time Master is a honorary title bestowed by the Esteemed Society of Arithmancers. The title goes back way into the early Middle Ages when the Society was founded. Since then, it has been granted to perhaps a hundred wizards and witches."

"And how does one become a Time Master?"

"The title Time Master is conferred to people who change our knowledge about the nature of time. Like the wizard who invented the Time-Turner. He was the first British Time Master."

"But Malfoy? What did he do to get this title? Certainly he's not invented anything. Did he nick some Dark forgotten device from his father's collection and pass it off as his own invention to impress the esteemed Arithmancers?"

"Not an altogether bad guess, Harry." Hermione leaned closer to him. She spoke very softly, so that no one but Harry could hear her words. "But no, he really did invent something. He'd studied Muggle physics in Germany, then Advanced Arithmancy at the Magical Academy in Marseilles. He was one of the master students of Laura Nigellus."

She must have seen Harry's baffled look, the way she rolled her eyes. "You have no idea who I'm talking about, do you? Harry, do you read anything but the _Prophet_?"

"Um, _Modern Curse Breaking, Which Broomstick?, Lush, The Quibbler_ ..." In front of them, pictures of Diagon Alley flashed, half-second shots of Gringotts, the Leaky and other places Harry didn't recognise. He thought about mentioning _Leather Wizard_ to convince Hermione that he was, in fact, a well-read man, but then stopped himself. There were some things Hermione didn't need to know.

"I get it, I get it." She shook her head and Harry grinned.

"So this Nigellus witch is a famous Arithmancer, I take it. And Malfoy, for whatever reason, studied with her. But what did he invent?"

"He invented a time-travel machine. To go back into the past." Hermione glanced up at the wall. Harry caught a glimpse of the tall towers of Hogwarts Castle before a slide from the lake appeared, then another of the ivy-covered gate. _Travelling in time ..._ Hermione turned in her chair and looked at him. "And before you get all excited: no, Malfoy's machine does not work. Not yet. But he's come up with a new theory about Teleportation, about the magic behind it."

"And this new theory of Malfoy's is important?"

She nodded. "It was published in _Unspeakably Unfathomable_***** three or four years ago and caused quite the stir in the magick-scientific world. He makes a very convincing argument about how Teleportation can also be used for travelling through time."

"And he told you all about this when he was talking to you because of his mother's death?"

"No. Everybody knows about Malfoy's dense matter gravitation theory." Hermione's mouth twitched into something like a smile. "Well, everybody who reads something other than sports rags and gay magazines. And I never was assigned as a healer to Malfoy. We have history, remember?" St. Mungo's policy, strictly enforced to keep all possible bad blood after the war at a minimum. "We ran into each other after one of his sessions and talked. He was speaking quite openly. I was surprised. Considering ..." Hermione shrugged. Considering Malfoy had called her a dirty Mudblood for most of their school years. Considering she'd been tortured in the very place that Malfoy, for all that Harry knew, still called his home.

"I think he was looking for ways to deal with the loss," Hermione said. "How to remember his mother. How to forget. You know what I mean?" She looked at him from her brown eyes, her attention focused on him as if none of her patients were here, but only just she and Harry.

"Um, I guess, yes." But he didn't. Not really. All his life he'd cherished whatever scraps of his parents' memory he could get: pictures, stories, even the recurring nightmare of green light and a woman's voice -- his mother's voice -- screaming. He didn't need to forget, because there was nothing for him to forget. Nothing personal, no memories that belonged to him alone. All he had were images in a magical mirror and ghost shapes from beyond the Veil. Harry found himself wondering what Malfoy wished to forget about his mother. Her death? Or perhaps some small recollection, meaningless to anybody but Malfoy himself, so full of his mother's presence that he'd couldn't stop thinking of it.

Hermione was still looking at him.

"But why would he want to travel back in time?" Harry asked. It seemed fake, like his parents' reflection in the Mirror of Erised, or another person's Pensieve memories. You could only be an observer in the past, were not allowed not interact, not touch, _not to be seen_ ...

"Wouldn't you want to go back sometimes?" Hermione asked, her eyes shaded and her head turned away from him, towards the wall.

"No." Harry shook his head. "Why would I? There's nothing I would want to do in the past that I haven't already done. I couldn't change things, I couldn't --"

_Change things._ Of course. They'd done it before. He and Hermione -- they'd gone back in time and saved Sirius's life. And Buckbeak's. Harry would give a lot to change so many things. Hell, if he could travel back in time, he could stop Voldemort right on the doorstep of his parents' house in Godric's Hallow. He could save his father and his mother. He would have grown up as an unscarred boy with a loving magical home. He'd be a different man today. A better man? Harry doubted it.

Hermione had her head slightly tilted towards him, while she kept an eye on her patients and the images of high blue mountains flashing on the wall.

"Do you think Malfoy would want to change ... things? In the past, I mean? During the war?" Not bring Death Eaters into Hogwarts, not have cursed jewellery or poisoned mead smuggled in. Not repair the bloody cabinet. Not take the Dark Mark, not become one of them. All those choices Malfoy had made. Did he want to travel back in time to change any of this?

"He may have wanted to, in the beginning" Hermione spoke softly. "But he knows that he can't do that, even if he manages to get his machine to work. There is no Arithmancy in this world that lets you calculate the possibilities of even the smallest alteration to events that happened so long ago. Just imagine if we had saved Sirius much later -- like years later. He would have been dead for years to come alive again all of sudden because you'd sent your Patronus from a distant future. All the events that followed his _death_ ..." she drew invisible quotation marks around the word, "... they'd all change as well. Our present time would spin out of control, the world would become incomprehensible to us over night. That's why with a Time-Turner you could only move back a very short time."

_Time could spin in out of control._ But -- wasn't this what they were dealing with at the moment? Harry opened his mouth to ask Hermione about it, when he became aware of the white square of light on the wall. Hermione quickly turned, reaching for the projector that ejected the last tray of slides with a clacking noise.

Mrs Touré stared at the lighted wall for another two seconds, then she pronounced, loud and clear, _"Spairas inflamarae"._ Patients were not allowed to carry a wand at St. Mungo's, but her magic was powerful enough to ignite the magical candles. A bright, warm light flooded the common room. Mrs Touré got up, clapped her hand on Harry's shoulder and headed for the door. The other patients blinked into the light, and after Hermione announced that the session was over, they followed Mrs Touré.

Hermione talked to a bald man who'd remained seated with a vacant look in his eyes. At the back wall Avery was staring at Harry, mouthing silent words that Harry didn't understand. There were times when Harry wondered whether the man did remember him. Or perhaps recognised in him a familiar similarity to Lily Potter. During one of his visits, Avery had called him a _sly Mudblood witch_, a statement that had made Hermione scribble furiously in her blue book and had Ron in stitches from laughter. But something sad and desperate showed in Avery's thin face today. Harry turned away to see Hermione lead her patient to the door where another healer waited to accompany him to his room. She, too, noted that Avery was all focused on Harry.

"He's got much worse," she said as she stood beside Harry, watching Avery pull at the shackles as he tried to move away from the wall. "They had to Stun him yesterday. His magic was going wild, he was breaking the dishes at dinner. Macnair ..." She looked to Harry. "Walden Macnair? The Death Eater?"

Harry nodded. Of course he remembered Macnair.

"He used to come by and visit him every other day or so. But not since the Day The Clocks Stopped. I wonder ..." Hermione sighed, then turned to Shrink the dozens of trays of slides.

Harry looked at Hermione's back covered in the light blue of her healers' robes. There were days when Harry could not bear to see those robes on her. _Spin out of control._ He needed to talk to Hermione about this, but instead he was grasping her shoulder, turning her around with more force than he intended. "Would you? Want to change anything in the past? If you could, I mean? If Malfoy's machine really worked?"

Hermione stared at him, wand in one hand, Muggle plastic tray in the other. "Would I want --?" Her eyes were shining too brightly in the light of the globes. With a sharp flick of her wand, she cast what had to be a silent _Finite_ on the Charmed windows, for the grey afternoon light streamed into the room all of a sudden.

"Harry," she said, her tone exasperated, "what do you think? _What_ do you think? That Malfoy is the only one who's made mistakes in his life?" Her shoulders had gone stiff, a clear sign of barely suppressed anger.

Harry took his hand away, waiting for her to continue, to let it out. But she never did. Not even now, when the catastrophe brought them close again. Close like they had been during those last months of the war against Voldemort, closer even than Harry had ever been with Ron. But not even now, when her tired face and the quiver in her voice spelled utter exhaustion, did she say what they both knew she needed to say so badly. Harry would have raged, would have screamed at anybody close enough to him to be able to bear the brunt of his anger. But never Hermione. She hid it all under those blasted blue robes, tucked it away like she now tucked away her wand. With the wand gone, the anger seemed to seep right out of her. It left behind something else, a sadness that had been growing in her ever since they had returned from Australia.

And there it was: the reason why the three of them barely saw each other anymore, why they never met casually on weekends, for a game, for dinner, even just for a beer on a work night.

They were still close and cared deeply for each other. When Harry has his public coming-out, the _Prophet_ had insinuated that such 'Muggle perversion' was not befitting any wizard awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class. No matter that the perverse wizard was the Boy Who Lived To Grow Up To Love Men. When Harry's sexuality was making front page news for weeks, Hermione and Ron had stuck with him all through the smear campaign. Then Mrs Weasley had fallen ill with cancer and Ron was going mental in the Burrow and Harry and Hermione had hauled him off to each and every Cannon game of the season.

They were friends. What had happened had nothing to do with how all their vague plans of a future after Voldemort had never materialised. How Ron had not married Hermione, but kept up an 'affair' that now had lasted more than seven years, with Gabrielle, Fleur's younger sister. How both Ginny and Harry had come out, and Ron had never been comfortable with it.

It had nothing to do with all of this.

Four times, over the years, Harry had accompanied Hermione on her annual visit to Australia. Her parents had not come back. They still lived in the quiet, sprawling house that Hermione had bought for them. Mr Granger worked in a library, a mentally disabled if enthusiastic volunteer with a surprising knowledge of all things medical. Mrs Granger was the neighbourhood's baby-sitter, a shy grey-haired woman who was a bit slow, but the children loved her. They'd kept the false names Hermione had chosen for them, Monica and Wendell, because those were the names they had remembered after the Reversal Spell Hermione had cast on them. The Memory Reversal Spell that had gone so utterly wrong.

"Mione," Harry whispered and wished he could back smooth the lock that had fallen into her face again. But he knew better than to touch her now. "You did nothing wrong. It was not your fault."

She stepped back abruptly. The anger that had been stuck in her hunched shoulders blazed into her eyes. "Not my fault, Harry? But it was my fault. I held the wand, I cast the spell. And I should have bloody well known better than to do it myself."

Harry heard the low rattling from the night-globes vibrating with Hermione's uncontrolled magic, he heard Avery making soft moaning noises, as if he was in pain. But he didn't take his eyes away from Hermione. If he could ... if he said the right words, then perhaps ... perhaps ... "You didn't know, Hermione. God, you didn't know what would happen."

"Oh, but yes, Harry, I did know. Best witch of the year, remember?" Cool and sharp, the words precise as if they were back in Potions and she was answering one of Snape's impossible questions. "I did know. I was barely seventeen, just out of school, casting a spell that takes years of training. I knew that. We all knew that."

How? How to take that away? "But you'd done so many spells that were far advanced. God, Hermione, you were brewing Polyjuice in second year. I can barely get it right today, and I've been trained by the best. But you, you modified a Protean before we were even taught N.E.W.T.-level spells. How should you have --"

"Don't you get it?" Her voice was still deceptively calm. If Harry had not known her so very well, he would have missed the quiver in it. "They are my parents. They don't remember me, but they are my parents. And I fucked up. I fucked _them_ up. Irreversible spell damage. And yes, Harry, I want to change a thing in my past. Just one little spell, but I'd give anything for the chance to undo it. But it's not possible."

The tears spilled from her eyes now and she turned away from Harry, picked up her blue book, the projector and the jumble of tiny Shrunk trays. For a moment it seemed like she would leave without another word, but then she looked back at Harry.

He couldn't bear her tear-stricken face, her strong, dear jaw trembling with all that she was holding back. And he knew he shouldn't say what was on his tongue, but he just couldn't stop himself.

"Don't do this, Mione. You're destroying your life right along with your parents'." His voice was low and scratchy, but Hermione had heard him well enough, heard him say words like "destroy" and "parents" and "life". Her face turned white as a sheet.

"Get Malfoy," she whispered as the Shrunk trays fell from her hand, hundreds of miniature slides clattering to the floor. "Get Malfoy and save the world again, Harry. That's what you're good at."

As he stared at the tiny squares on the floor, Harry remembered what he should have said. That Hermione was a brilliant mind-healer, one of the best. That she was saving people every day. That she had saved his life and Ron's because she'd used magic that had been far advanced for her age. But Hermione was gone from the room before he could think of those words.

Behind him, there was a sharp clink and a groan. Harry turned to see Avery pull at the shackles with all his might. Blue sparks ran around the Charmed metal, as he tried to move towards Harry.

Harry stepped close to him, wand drawn. The man was hurting himself. Avery stared at him with blue eyes dilated so that they were all black. "Potter," he murmured, "you've always been the sharp one. Tell me ... did he go? Why hasn't he come to tell me?" His lips started to tremble, a ripple of pain flashed across his face, then he collapsed. All Harry managed was to break the fall and help the emaciated man gently to the floor.

As he called for a healer Harry wondered about what memories Avery couldn't stop thinking of.

*** * ***

The drive up to Malfoy Manor was overhung with thorny branches, trailing forbiddingly in Harry's way. He did not expect Draco Malfoy to be any more welcoming than the roses. An ancient house-elf, clad in a spotless white tea cosy, opened the door. Harry just knew what was going to happen: in another moment, the house-elf would inform his master of the unlikely visitor. Malfoy would give orders to slam the heavy door in Harry's face, and that would be the end of it. Why should Harry Potter have more luck than the Minister for Magic?

But instead of leaving, the house-elf just stood in the opened door, looking Harry up and down. Its bulging eyes lingered on Harry's scar, then on his out-of-style robes.

"Harry Potter." It was no question. The house-elf indicated a quick bow, making Harry wonder whether it had known Dobby. "Please to be following, Sir."

He was led into the hallway where sombre wizards and witches stared from portraits dark with age. Light from stained-glass windows painted patterns on the marble floor. They turned into a corridor opening on the right, passed three closed double doors, then stopped before a smaller door opposite a window looking out into a court yard.

The house-elf knocked and from inside Harry could hear Malfoy's unmistakable voice -- that arrogant drawl with the ever-present tinge of disdain. The door swayed open by magic and the house-elf gestured towards Harry to enter. Silently, the door closed behind him.

A man was standing at a broad window overlooking the Manor's gardens. He wore old-fashioned Muggle clothes, his blond hair longer than Harry remembered. Slowly he turned. It was Malfoy all right, face pointy and pale, haughty pure-blood posture, even when he just seemed to be contemplating this poor excuse of a summer day.

"Salazar from the -- " Malfoy's hand shot towards his sleeve, then he caught himself and dropped the arm, as if realising the futility of the gesture. He stared at Harry with a look that spelled less annoyance than startled surprise. And, if Harry was not mistaken, barely concealed fear. _"Potter!"_

"Malfoy." Harry nodded at him. He stepped onto a Persian carpet of blues and greys, taking in the two leather chairs before a fireplace of gold-veined marble. His eyes were instantly drawn back to Malfoy.

His face was frozen in an expression of disbelief, but his mouth had turned into a mocking smile. Harry knew that smile so well, but for the first time he found himself wondering what emotion Malfoy was hiding behind it. He had caught him unprepared, for clearly the house-elf had not informed his master -- by whatever elfish magic -- of the identity of his visitor. Harry stepped even closer, to stand beside Malfoy on the polished wooden floor. He felt himself strangely possessed to touch Malfoy's hand or arm, greet him like he would a friend whom he hadn't seen for a very long time. Which was ridiculous, they'd never been anything like friends. But somehow Malfoy's slender silhouette was a familiar memory from Harry's past, a memory that he found himself feeling almost ... fond of.

From a closer distance Harry could see how much Malfoy had changed. He seemed taller, with a commanding air much like his father, emphasised by the high-waisted trousers. Still a Seeker's lean build, as much as Harry could see underneath the cloth of the shirt, fastidiously buttoned up to the throat. The years showed in the way Malfoy's features had settled, chin still pointy, but cheekbones and jaw line delicate rather than sharp. Delicate, fragile even, and the pale skin looked so soft that Harry found himself wondering how it would feel to trace his fingers ...

_Gods!_ Harry couldn't recall ever having been so instantly attracted to another man. Sirius' advice to wear robes seemed like words of wisdom now, and hardly to accommodate for any pure-blood sensibilities about Harry's usual attire of t-shirt and jeans -- an unnecessary precaution, seeing as Malfoy himself was wearing a Muggle suit. But Harry's body was reacting in strange, inexplicable ways to the man before him, ways that made him more than grateful for the bunching folds of the robes.

"You?" Malfoy seemed to snap out of his Petrified state of surprise. He took a step away from Harry, towards a small writing table. His eyes were still huge as he stammered, "Hanny let _you_ in? What do you think you're doing ...?" He stopped, catching his breath.

Fear, definitely. It was thick in the magical aura surrounding Malfoy. For a moment Harry wondered whether Malfoy could indeed be involved with whoever or whatever was behind the catastrophe. He was a Time Master, after all. But when Harry had drawn attention to Malfoy's past in the Ministry, he'd spoken theoretically. He'd wanted to make people realise that everybody, high-ranking politician as much as celebrated alchemist, could be responsible for what had happened. If the war against Voldemort had taught him anything, it was never to put his trust in the mighty and influential.

"The Minister for Magic sent me. It's an official kind of visit. Sorry to disturb you. You've not been answering the Minister's owls, and I figured I take my chances and just show up." Harry closely watched Malfoy's face. He still stared at him from wide grey eyes, but the tension in his jaw lessened. So the fear had nothing to do with the Ministry and their requests for Malfoy to join the Order. Something more private then. Something to do with him, with Harry Potter, perhaps? He couldn't tell, but since he'd entered the study Malfoy had not once taken his eyes off him.

"Well, I'll be damned." Malfoy's voice was soft, but the drawl was back in place. "So the Minister got his Golden Boy to haul me into their useless ploy to save the world. I don't know if I should feel honoured or put it down to a general clutching at last straws."

"It's been a while since I've been the Ministry's Golden Boy." Harry stepped towards the window, assuming the very position where Malfoy had stood before. He could see another wing of the Manor, tall windows of what looked like a room much larger than the one they were in.

"So I've heard. Harry Potter's playing for the other team. And there I've wondered what kept you valiant Gryffindors in the locker room forever after the games." Malfoy's gaze flickered over his body and Harry had to stop himself from shifting again. If he didn't get a grip on himself, Malfoy was sure to notice his erection.

"You should talk. It's not like there's any doubt which team you are playing for." Harry's voice sounded huskier than he liked, but he had done his research. Or rather, Sirius had provided him with all the pertinent facts of Malfoy's private life, as much as there was any private life to speak of. A couple of sightings at the Shadow Lounge, a lifetime membership in the prestigious Fairy Club, even though none of the staff seemed to remember having actually seen Malfoy on the premises. A subscription of _Leather Wizards_ -- and Harry really didn't want to know how Sirius got hold of the strictly confidential list of subscribers. But no lovers, as much as Sirius could detect. No scandals, sex or otherwise. Pity, really, Harry couldn't help thinking, now that he had Malfoy before him.

A gush of rain spattered against the window, and Harry realised they'd both been silent for the last couple of seconds. _Sizing each other up._ He grinned at the direction his thoughts were going. Malfoy looked at him, his head slightly tilted to the left. He seemed more relaxed. So apparently Harry had him convinced that there was no need for a wand, that there was nothing to fear. That was good. Or perhaps not. Harry shrugged.

Malfoy turned away so quickly that Harry barely caught him rolling his eyes. He moved behind the small desk where, judging from the parchment and quill thrown onto it, he had been writing before he'd stood up and looked out of the window. Harry surprised himself by wondering what had been going through Malfoy's mind when he'd been staring out into the rain.

"I've always been gay," Malfoy said, the drawl entirely gone from his voice. He took a suit jacket from the back of the chair and put it on. "It's you who wanted the wifey and the brood of kids. Whatever happened to the Weasley bird? Ginerva, wasn't it?" He walked towards the door, gesturing for Harry to follow him.

"Ginny's also gay." Not that it was any of Malfoy's business. But something made Harry say it, an odd sense of challenge, as if he had to prove to Malfoy that he'd been always -- mostly -- gay, too.

Malfoy turned to him, surprise on his face, then he cocked his eyebrow in an amused sort of way. It looked bloody sexy and if Malfoy had been any other bloke, Harry would have assumed he was flirting with him. Or at least, checking out if Harry was interested in flirting. The warmth spreading from his stomach told Harry he was interested in quite a bit more than flirting, but this was Draco Malfoy.

Hell, the world was going to pieces, and here he was, aroused by the thought of flirting with a bloke whom he'd hated for most of his life. A bloke who wasn't even Harry's type. He never went for blonds and not for fairies, either. And while Malfoy seemed man enough in all the right places (at least Harry assumed he was, for no bulge showed and it would have shown, tight trousers and no robes that Malfoy was wearing), he _was_ a fairy, all the way to his dainty cherry-wood desk, the silver bracelet around his wrist, the frilly lace on the front of his shirt whose colour somehow brought the shine out in his too-long hair and made Harry want to reach out and touch it. Fuck!

It didn't help that the tailored jacket made Malfoy look older, more broad-shouldered, more like the wizard Harry had imagined to meet. This was the new Malfoy, the one who'd studied on the Continent, the one with the spectacular career in Arithmancy. Malfoy the inventor. The Time Master.

He was staring until Malfoy's mouth moved in a quirky twitch, lips too thin and too pink and with a touch of cruelty that made Harry want to bite them.

"Are you coming?" Malfoy asked, voice cool and clear, and Harry realised Malfoy was standing at the door, waiting for him.

"You are going to throw me out, after all." He chuckled to himself, half disappointed and half relieved. Then he saw the exasperated look on Malfoy's face, and no, apparently he was not thrown out.

They walked down the corridor in silence. When they came to the last of the three big doors, Malfoy hastened his steps. It might have been coincidence, but perhaps there was a way later to find out what was behind that door. From the entrance hall with the portraits Malfoy lead Harry into the corridor off to the left. He stopped before high double doors of darkly stained wood. The doors were familiar as was the sudden brightness of the room that opened behind them. For a moment Harry wanted to turn and leave, as fearful memories came back to him -- of his scar burning with blinding pain, bloated face tender and shiny, of Hermione's screams of agony. And of Malfoy, a younger Malfoy, who'd been scared to even look at him, for fear that he was indeed Harry Potter and he'd have to betray him to the Dark Lord.

Malfoy did look at him now, curiosity sparkling in his eyes and behind it, a sense of expectant pride. Harry looked around what had once been the Manor's drawing room. In place of the huge chandelier, neon tubes ran along the ceiling, drowning the entire room in their bluish light. Briefly Harry wondered how Malfoy kept the magic of the Manor from interfering with the electricity. He'd give something to learn that spell, for a spell it had to be. Grimmauld Place could use some Muggle appliances. Harry recognised the huge marble fireplace but everything else was changed in the large room. The walls had been painted white, the portraits replaced by shelves and peculiar looking charts. Towards the windows stood a huge desk, cluttered with books, parchments, a laptop computer and stacks of Muggle paper. Harry noticed a framed photograph of Snape on the wall behind the desk. Where once had hung the mirror with the gilded frame, a huge clock had been placed above the fireplace. Its hands pointed at exactly thirteen minutes after nine.

In the middle of the room rose a hexagon-shaped platform covered with copper sheets. Six slender poles were raised on their edges, each about eight feet high, with a thin golden chain fastened to their tips to form an uneven glittering circle in the air. At one side the chain dipped low between two poles and vanished within a waist-high, square box made from black-lacquered steel. Levers were attached to one side, an egg-sized knob stuck out at its front, the words "on/off" printed beside it. Movable slots above the knob displayed day, month and year, in black and red. The date said, _Saturday, June 14th 1997._

Malfoy followed Harry's look to the platform and motioned for him to step closer. "I am not throwing you out, Potter," he said, in response to Harry's remark from minutes ago. "But I will tell you what I've already told Higgs and Radford and the bloody Minister. Again. If I get a thick-headed bastard like you to listen, then hopefully you all will leave me alone."

Not a small amount of frustration showed in Malfoy's voice, and Harry wondered what information Robards had held back when briefing him. "What _did_ you tell them?" he asked.

"That I cannot do anything for you. That there is nothing anyone can do." Malfoy shrugged in a lop-sided way, his mouth twitching, and then Harry saw it: the same reluctant and incredulous despair that he'd seen in the eyes of those Muggle scientists in Geneva and in Gemynd Radford's face at the Ministry.

He turned towards the platform. It had to be Malfoy's time machine. "But you're a Time Master. And whatever happened when the bloody clocks stopped -- it has to do with time. Look at this lab or whatever you turned the room into. Hermione says you revolutionised the way Arithmancers think about time. There must be things you know that can help us solve this, help us make the clocks move again."

Harry'd spoken more forcefully than he'd intended, but all of a sudden he wanted Malfoy to join the Order. To become a member of the team. Something about the silence in this room, in this house where Voldemort had plotted his war, scared him like he hadn't been scared before. Perhaps they really were up against an Unbreakable Curse, a problem that could not be sorted out, no matter how hard they tried. But was this truly the end of everything? Hell, he couldn't imagine it. But if it came to it, he knew he wanted Malfoy on their side.

"I have no idea how to solve this, as you put it." If Malfoy had noted Harry's agitation, he didn't show it but as before spoke with an air of exasperated finality. "And I don't think there is any way this can be solved. I've studied time, Potter, how it relates to magic. But what is happening to the world has never even seemed conceivable. Not according to every fact and spell and hypothesis about time that I know of."

"That's what the Unspeakables are saying."

"Well, they're right." Again that dismissive shrug. Malfoy had given up, that much was obvious. He had surrendered to what he believed were unalterable facts. Harry couldn't imagine how Malfoy lived with it. Had he contemplated death when he'd looked out into the rain-fogged gardens?

"We've formed an emergency team, it's called the Order of the Hummingbird," he explained, speaking fast. "Wizards and witches from inside the Ministry and from the outside. The idea is to bring different kinds of experts together, pool our knowledge and resources. Robards asked my team to join, and we did. You're the only Time Master in Britain, Malfoy. We need you." It was the most Harry was going to say. He wouldn't beg.

Malfoy had moved forward while Harry was speaking, towards his machine. He squatted in front of it, wiped invisible dust from the edge of the gleaming copper sheet, then looked up to the glittering chain. "You know," he said, "there was a time when I would have given a lot to hear those words. From those bleeding-heart Muggle-lovers in the Ministry. From all you honest and oh so brave Gryffindors. From you." He turned back to Harry, still crouched on the floor. "But not anymore. Times have changed. Or more precisely," he let out a soft chuckle, "_time_ has changed."

So much for _Malfoy_ having changed. Harry stared at the long smooth fingers, which seemed to caress the copper. Something about the way Malfoy had his head half turned, his eyes away from Harry, his back so straight and proud ... it made Harry want to throw him onto the platform, push him against it, made him want to see Malfoy's blond hair against the reddish gold of the metal. God, but he wanted to shut Malfoy up for good and draw blood from those impossibly pink lips. Harry knew he was being taunted, that Malfoy was playing games with him. Slytherin games -- to find out how much his participation was worth it to the Ministry. And how much it was worth to Harry. It had always been personal between the two of them, in Quidditch, in classes, even in the blasted war.

"Don't play hard to get, Malfoy," he growled and didn't care one bit about the sexual innuendo of his words. He took another step forward and came to stand right in front of Malfoy, groin level with his face. Let him see his erection, let him see that Harry wanted him.

Malfoy rose slowly and they faced each other, barely two inches apart. There could be no question now about Malfoy's manly bits. A prominent bulge was showing, his trousers almost touching the front of Harry's robes. Malfoy's eyes were on Harry, considering him as his teeth slowly grazed his lower lip. For a moment Harry thought Malfoy would want to kiss him, but he stepped back. Shaking his head he turned and walked towards one corner. With his back to Harry, he checked on a cylindrical brass-ringed contraption, adjusted something at the glass tube held inside.

"Hey," Harry called out to him. "Show me how this works."

"What?" Malfoy turned his head, eyes glistening in the bright light.

"Your time machine." Harry pointed towards the platform. "How does it work? If you're not joining the Order, you can at least teach me some of the stuff you know, can't you?"

Malfoy laughed, a short and bitter sound, and yes, this was mental. But Harry was not ready to give up. Not on their world and not on Malfoy.

He watched him come back, unable to keep a smile from his face. God, he wanted Malfoy, all sharp angles and smooth moves. Perhaps, once they were through with this, once they ...

Malfoy walked past him, to the square metal box. He fiddled with the levers, then turned the knob. Immediately a soft humming filled the room. Tiny flashes of lightning crackled along the golden chain; shivering ghostly flames appeared on the tips of the poles, St. Elmo igniting his fires right within the walls of Malfoy Manor. Harry stared up at them in awe when he felt Malfoy's hand on his shoulder.

"Step onto the platform, Potter," he said, "so I can show you how the machine works. A practical demonstration." His smirk was vicious, the touch of his hand warm.

Harry looked at him. "You're going to send me back in time?" He tried to see if Malfoy had reset the machine, but couldn't make out the date.

"Of course not." Malfoy moved his hand away and bowed to pick up a sugar bowl tucked underneath the platform. "Granger must have told you that the machine is not working properly."

Harry nodded. "What is this?" He pointed towards the bowl. White roses were painted on the blue porcelain. _Narcissa's,_ he thought.

"Standard-issue Floo powder." With a flick of his wrist, Malfoy's wand slid into his hand. "In general terms, this machine works like a combination of a Portkey and the Floo. Only, you're not going to another place, but to another time. Theoretically you'd be travelling back to the day that the machine's set for. In practice, though, Floo powder's too weak. Its gravitational pull lets you go back only a fraction of a second, I'm afraid. But it's long enough to show you how it works." He gestured with his wand for Harry to climb onto the platform.

"Er ..." Harry stared at the machine. In the space within the poles, a column of light had formed, as wide as the circumference of the golden chain above. It spilled downward onto the copper, its edges blurry as the chain was swaying in an invisible wind. It looked beautiful and not a little dangerous. "You are aware that at least a dozen people know I was going to see you this afternoon, aren't you? If this is some nefarious plan to Portkey me into the Sahara, you'll have Aurors crawling all over Malfoy Manor at supper time."

Malfoy blinked, huffed, then laughed, darkly and loudly, like Harry'd never heard Malfoy laugh.

"All right, so you think this is _really_ funny," he said, not sure whether to feel insulted or pleased that he'd made Malfoy laugh.

"No, no, sorry, Potter. Constant vigilance, I understand." He touched Harry's shoulder again, standing so close that Harry could see the wrinkles around his eyes. "I promise you'll end up right here in this room. It's not going to be the most pleasant experience, a bit like Apparition. But it's not dangerous." He was stirring up the glittering powder in the bowl, and perhaps Harry still looked dubious, for he added, perfectly calm again, "I've done this myself every morning since the clocks stopped, to see if the catastrophe has any effect on the machine. It hasn't. There is no danger."

"Well, all right then." Harry unbuttoned his robes, shook them off and stepped right into the column of light. Immediately a heavy weight was pushing him down towards the copper platform. He couldn't help but go to his knees.

"You're in a space with high gravity. Don't fight it, Potter. Lie down, if it feels more comfortable." Malfoy's voice seemed further away, but Harry could hear him well enough.

"I'm fine."

Malfoy looked at him, his gaze sharp and cold, then he cast a spell Harry did not know. Floo powder was rising from the bowl like a cloud of stardust, trailing the tip of Malfoy's wand. He guided it higher and higher, then flung it up above the column of light. He muttered another spell, and the powder started to descend in spirals, tiny emerald specks moving in the light. Lower and lower they fell until they spun within the entire column. Harry could see Malfoy through the curtain of green light, as he stood behind the metal box, wand drawn, hopefully to get Harry out of this, should something go wrong.

The next moment the light around him was whirling fast, or perhaps Harry himself was spinning. He held himself up on both arms, kneeling on the platform, when he had a sudden vision of the back of his own head underneath him on the platform. Black strands of hair against the gleaming copper, a gush of cold wind ... Something crashed down into him with so much force, his face was smacked into the metal, his legs drawn out flat from under him. He barely had time to draw a startled breath when it was already over again.

Harry tried to lift his hand that felt glued to the copper, and he could do so easily. Only, there was a shadow hand following his movements. Or rather, he could see his hand, his arm doubling before him. The snake tattoo circling his right wrist seemed to jump back and forth from one right hand to the other, the first slightly translucent, the second more solid, more like Harry's blood was actually flowing in it. He raised himself into a sitting position. The left lens of his glasses had a crack run through it. Other than that, everything seemed like it'd been before -- Malfoy, the poles, the chain, the column of light. Only the emerald glittering of the Floo powder was gone. He looked up to the flickering blue flames and shook his head, trying to clear his vision. Then he raised both hands, mesmerised by the shadow form following his every move.

"Take your wand, Potter." There was a faint echo to Malfoy's voice, as if he was speaking from the other side of an empty hall.

Harry took his wand from its pocket at the side of his jeans. "What's happened? Did it work?"

"Or course it worked." Malfoy checked something on the metal box. "You are approximately 0.376 seconds back in time."

"But ... I can see you and hear you. And _talk_ to you."

Malfoy smirked at him. "Oh no, not to me. You are talking to my self 0.376 seconds ago. Do you hear an echo? Do you see an afterimage when you move?"

Harry nodded.

"There's an overlap because sound travels slower than light. If I had denser matter at my disposal instead of just Floo powder, and you'd gone back, say, three point seven-six instead of 0.376 seconds, we wouldn't be able to communicate." He glanced at Harry doubtfully. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I think so. You need something stronger than Floo powder to travel back in time for real."

"In a nutshell, yes, you've got it, Potter." Even with the echo, Harry could hear the pride in Malfoy's voice. His eyes, though, were not looking at Harry's face but flickering over his body, down Harry's bare arms towards his hands.

"Why is there an afterimage?" Harry asked.

"It's ..." Malfoy pulled his gaze away from the tattoos and busied himself with something at the metal box. "Well, it's perfectly normal that you can see an afterimage. Basically, there's two of you now on the platform, you, 0.376 seconds ago and you, time-travelling. Because you are in the same space, the bodies are merging. But slow moves still will seem like an afterimage to your eye."

Harry felt Malfoy watch him as he slowly spread his arms within the column of light. For a moment it seemed like he had four arms, but when he moved faster, the doubling effect was gone. "How do I get back?" he asked.

Malfoy's eyes shot up to meet Harry's, his expression unreadable. "You ... you Apparate." He moved his head so that blond strands fell into his face. "And use your wand, even if you've mastered the wandless spell. It takes a bit more magic than normal Apparition. Focus on _deliberation_. Concentrate on getting exactly where you are."

Paradoxical as Malfoy's words sounded, they made sense to Harry now. He raised the wand, cleared his mind of every thought but to _here_ and cast the spell. The squeezing sensation was over before he could fully register it, and he found himself sitting amidst the column of light. There was a click from the metal box, and the light was gone. The blue flames flickered on the tips of the poles before they died down as well. The time machine had been turned of.

Malfoy stepped onto the platform and crouched before Harry. "Sorry about this," he said and reached for the broken glasses. "I should have warned you to take them off."

Wand raised he murmured, "_Reparo_" and the cracked lens was whole again. Slowly Malfoy returned the glasses but let his fingers linger on Harry's wrist. The touch was too intimate, but Harry didn't flinch, not even when Malfoy dropped his wand and hesitantly traced with both hands the twisting shapes of the tattoos stretching all the way up to Harry's shoulders.

"This," he whispered, "this is Fiendfyre." He moved a quivering thumb over the sparkling tiara flying before the red-snapping jaw of a raptor. Malfoy looked up and stared at Harry, eyes bright with wonder. "You have the fire from the Room ... the Room of Hidden Things tattooed on your arms?"

"Full-body tattoo, actually." Harry pulled down the collar of his t-shirt to allow Malfoy a glimpse of the orange-green monsters battling within the raging flames on his collarbone and chest. Malfoy's fingers gripped Harry's arms so hard he could feel the nails dig into his skin.

"Why? Why would you want this on your body?"

Harry wrapped his fingers around Malfoy's wrist, the left one, realising when he touched the bracelet that it was covering the Dark Mark's serpent's tail. Malfoy loosened his grip, his body still taut, even when the trembling in his hands subsided.

"Fire is my specialty," Harry explained, in the only way he knew. The only way that made sense to other people. "In the team, I mean. Fire Curses," he added, when Malfoy stared at him blankly. "While you were studying time, I was studying fire, I guess." He had to laugh at the thought, a short bark. "Hermione says I'm obsessed with it."

Malfoy nodded, a gesture of understanding. Perhaps he did understand, about being obsessed with things of the past. His eyes moved towards Harry's throat, then lower to where Harry's shirt had hitched up. Flames were leaping on the stretch of revealed skin, dancing around his navel, fiery tongues licking at the line of hair that lead towards his groin. Harry was getting hard again, he couldn't help it, not with Malfoy so close and his fingers hot on his skin. Malfoy seemed wholly unfazed. His fingertips had found the scars above Harry's elbow and he caressed them slowly. It struck Harry that Malfoy wasn't so much exploring the tattoos but his living skin.

"A souvenir from Tunisia," he croaked, his mouth dry. "Some old Pharaoh thought it a bright idea to have his tombs guarded by a Dragon's Breath Curse." Dragon's Breath was just another name for Fiendfyre, and judging from Malfoy's sharp inhale he knew it. Something about the way he stroked the scar made Harry wonder whether Malfoy had come out of the Fiendfyre with souvenirs of his own. His heart clenched painfully at the thought of burn scars on Malfoy's pale skin, and perhaps he'd made a startled move, for Malfoy drew away.

"No!" He grabbed Malfoy's hands, held them close. "You know how for years they kept calling me the Saviour, all that Chosen One crap. That's just so much bollocks. I never really saved anyone, only Ginny and --" _And you._

Malfoy looked at him like he was mad, and well, perhaps Harry was a bit mad. Only Sirius truly understood him, and Sirius had lost his two best friends to the Killing Curse.

"You did save me and Greg," Malfoy said, his tone matter-of-fact, without the tremor of gratitude that Harry'd come to despise. He gently prised his hands from Harry's hold and got up.

Perhaps Malfoy hated to owe his life to Harry. Or perhaps he thought Harry had owed it to him to save his life, after what he'd done to him in Myrtle's loo. Harry didn't care one way or the other.

He took Malfoy's out-stretched hand and let himself be pulled up so they both stood. Malfoy's hand fell lightly on Harry's hip, touching him again as if they were friends or more. Harry looked down to where Malfoy's fingers were brushing leaping flames on his skin, then he raised his head. Malfoy studied him uncertainly, but just as Harry met his gaze, he seemed to have made up his mind.

"Come," he said, "I want you to meet someone."

*** * ***

As it turned out, the Manor's library lay behind the big doors that Malfoy had been in such a hurry to pass earlier. He opened them now without a knock and quickly entered the spacious room, gesturing for Harry to follow him.

The library was done in walnut wainscotting, leather-bound books stacked in broad shelves which reached all the way up to the high ceiling. The polished floor was covered with Persian rugs just as in Malfoy's study, but here the predominant colours were rich hues of purple. Harry stood back at the door, waiting.

"Father," Malfoy said.

It was a shock to see Lucius Malfoy after all those years. His hair was cropped short and had turned a whitish grey, giving him a stern air of authority, nothing like the smooth elegance of the wizard Harry remembered. He sat at a broad desk, clad in expensive dark robes, a presence to be reckoned with in the wizarding world. And yet Lucius Malfoy had never returned to the public after his release from Azkaban. Something about the brittle paleness of his skin made Harry think that he must have been seriously ill. Lucius raised his head, eyes grey and cold like his son's, but with a feverish sheen.

"Ah, Draco," he said, smiling in what seemed genuine pleasure to see his son, "you should have told me that Horatio was chosen for a seat in the Wizengamot. Did we send a bottle of the sherry from Granada with the congratulatory owl? Millicent likes her sherry heavy and sweet. And you know, she's the power to be dealt with, no matter that Horatio occupies the seat."

The floor all around the desk and before the bookcases was covered with stacks and stacks of editions of the _Daily Prophet_. Some were so old that the paper was brown at the edges. On the desk more _Prophets_ were lying in precise piles, with a pair of scissors glinting and paper clippings strewn all over.

"I'm sorry, Father, but I didn't send an owl."

Harry turned to him, startled by how thin Malfoy's voice was, how hard he tried to sound calm and reassuring when obviously he was anything but calm and sure.

"I did attend the funeral, though. Mrs Bagnold died a couple of years ago."

Lucius looked at him, open-mouthed. Abruptly he lowered his head and cleared his throat. "Yes, yes. When was this again?" He looked around, searching frantically through the clippings and shoving an entire pile of _Prophets_ off the desk with his fumbling moves. Neither father nor son seemed to take notice of the newspapers cascading onto the purple-patterned rug.

"I don't remember the year, Father, but I'll find the announcement for you."

Lucius answered with an odd jerk of his jaw. He still perused his clippings. Harry could see that his hands were shaking.

"Father," Malfoy said quietly, "we have a guest."

Harry walked into the room to Malfoy's side. Lucius' head snapped up at the sound of his steps, then he rose so abruptly that his chair crashed to the floor.

"Harry Pot-- !" Lucius reached for his wand, just like his son, but his hand remained empty when he shook the sleeve of his robes. Lucius Malfoy wandless in his own home! Harry knew there could be no simple explanation for this, but when he looked to Malfoy, his face showed nothing.

Lucius' eyes flickered to his son too, uncertainly, as if he was at a loss at how to react. Then, from one moment to the next, his demeanour changed. With quick steps he moved around the desk and came towards Harry, hand offered in greeting. Harry was so taken aback by the gesture that he actually shook the hand. Lucius' grip was firm, his skin dry and soft.

"A pleasure to have you in our home, Mr Potter." His eyes moved to his son again, plainly asking for a clue as to what to make of the strange visitor.

"I'm here on behalf of the Ministry," Harry said. "I'm trying to convince your son to join the efforts to combat the catastrophe."

Lucius' expression went from panic to pride within a moment, then settled into a look of bewilderment. Again he looked to Malfoy who watched them both with intense scrutiny.

"You are ..." Lucius took in Harry's robes with a quick glance. "You are with the Aurors then, I gather?"

"Uh ... no, Sir." It's been years since anybody had suggested Harry would work for the Ministry. In the _Prophet_, there'd been dozens of articles about the members of the team and their curse-breaking jobs all around the world. Harry started to wonder whether Lucius had been living abroad during the last years. "I'm a Curse-breaker. Never was cut out much for Ministry work."

"Ah, working for Gringotts." Recognition flashed in Lucius Malfoy's eyes and he beamed at Harry. "The head minter is a dear old friend of mine. Do give my regards to Ragnok when you see him, will you?"

"Certainly, Sir. But Ragnok -- "

"Father," Malfoy interrupted quickly, "Potter and I still have some business to conduct. Will you excuse us?"

"Certainly, Draco, certainly." Lucius' eyes moved from Harry to his son, obviously more than baffled about what business the two of them could possibly conduct. "You will tell me all about this later. Or perhaps," he turned to Harry with a smooth smile, "Mr. Potter here will join us for tea?"

"Thank you, Sir, but I'll have to leave soon."

Lucius Malfoy graciously inclined his head and mumbled a polite good-bye. When Harry turned at the library's door for one last look, he was back at his desk, seemingly all engrossed in an old copy of the _Daily Prophet_.

Malfoy walked a couple of quick steps, then stopped before the window leading out into the courtyard. A fine tremor was running through his body, but when Harry reached out to put a hand on his arm, Malfoy stepped away at once. Outside, the rain had turned to sleet.

"How long has he been like this?"

"Since the Day The Clocks Stopped."

Something incongruous in Malfoy's tone made Harry ask, "And before?"

"He hadn't been himself during the last years," Malfoy said, his face even paler than usual. "It started shortly after he'd come home from Azkaban. And when my mother died ..." He shrugged, that lop-sided, awkward shrug. "There were days when he barely recognised me. Or the Manor. He thought he was back in that dismal cell. But he's remembering now." He squinted as if trying to rein in the joy that shimmered in his eyes. "There's more coming back to him every day. Just last night he asked about her."

"What did you tell him?"

Malfoy turned to him fully. "The truth, of course. He deserves as much. He's still getting used to the thought. I was going to take him to her grave today."

"And then I showed up."

"Yes." Amusement played on Malfoy's lips to disappear the next moment.

They stood in silence for a couple of seconds. Malfoy's eyes had moved back towards the courtyard where patches of snow formed on the gravel. The pale skin was drawn taut over the sharp bone of his jaw; he was breathing slowly. Gathering his courage to say something that would cost him, was Harry's guess. Whatever had passed between them on the platform, Malfoy obviously felt that Harry _deserved_ to know whatever was on his mind.

"What is it?" he asked softly.

There was a twitch of Malfoy's jaw. "I won't help you, Potter. Not the Minister, not your Hummingbird Order."

"Because of your father."

A sharp nod. Malfoy turned to him, but no emotion showed now in those grey eyes. Malfoy had made up his mind. And if not for the slight quiver of his lips Harry would have believed that he did not want to be convinced otherwise.

"You'd rather have everything out of control like this?" He pointed into the yard where wet clumps of snow were coming down thickly, sticking to the flowering rose bushes. "You'd rather live in a world where time's stopped than have your father lose his sanity again? Most likely we're all going to die, Malfoy. Your father, you, me, everybody."

"I'm ready to take my chances." Stiffly Malfoy pushed his hands into his pockets, a gesture so alien to him that Harry knew he was hiding not his hands, but his fear.

"There's other chances --"

"No." Malfoy jerked his head up. "None."

Harry reached out, and when Malfoy just stared at him, he gently moved his thumb over Malfoy's lips. Malfoy's eyes were widening, but he did not step away.

"Believe me," Harry whispered. _Let me save you._ "There's someone your father should see. She knows all about lost memories. And there's no one like her to help people find them again and remember."

*** * ***

***** Malfoy, D. A., "Moving Through Space, Moving Through Time: Floo Powder Considered as Dense Matter," _Unspeakably Unfathomable_, 2006.


	2. Chapter 2

On the eleventh day of June, six days after the clocks stopped, an area on the outskirts of the Geneva suburb of Meyrin disappeared.

Three six-storey apartment buildings, a supermarket and a playground were gone, leaving a pit in the earth that was bare of all signs of civilisation, the soil a dark fertile brown. Maybe twenty people had died, maybe a hundred, children and mothers among them, playing on the playground that was no more. An ignorant passer-by might have thought it a building site, the pit for the foundations just excavated. The oddly ripped-up street and the near-by trees looked naked, as if bark and branches had been sucked from them by an unnaturally strong wind -- clear indications that the tidal pull of a black hole had done the damage.

Zakhar Karkaroff stood away from the pit, his back pressed to the wall of an office building. The concrete offered no protection but provided him with a sense of safety nonetheless. He was acutely aware of the fact that a hundred metres below, proton beams were colliding in the Large Hadron Collider, producing microscopic black holes at this very moment. During the last days, they had used magic to make the black holes evaporate. They had been successful, postponing the catastrophe that was now before his eyes. Everyone in the rescue team, Muggle as well as wizard and witch, had known that it was only a matter of time until the black holes would feed on each other, the bigger ones sucking up matter from the smaller one, to form a black field so large it could no longer be evaporated away. This was what had happened a couple of minutes before, and it had been their sheer and unbelievable luck that it was the three of them who were working above this sector of the _Machine_, as the Muggle scientists lovingly called the Hadron Collider.

The spells they had used to evaporate the black holes had bought them time, a bit less than a minute, before the huge black field could vacuum away all of Geneva and likely a huge part of France and Switzerland, too. They had it stabilized within the span of this short minute by turning its dense matter into Floo powder.

It had been Angelina's idea. They had been reading Harry's report about his meeting with the Time Master, about the Malfoy time machine, about standard issue Floo powder being too weak to make a big jump through time. While Zak had still stared at the letter, written in Harry's almost indecipherable scrawl, the words so distant, all professional cool, Angelina had made the connection to their problem of the multiplying black holes. She'd babbled about her grandmother who had made a study of medieval wizardry. As a girl, Angelina had to memorise each and every spell invented before the Great Burnings. She'd taught them the spell to create Floo powder, for a situation just like the one that had just happened.

In the distance, Zak could see the landmark cube of the SX Building with its huge round window at the front. Behind it the Jura Mountains rose, dark green slopes against the grey sky. He looked back into the pit where Angelina climbed ever deeper into the ground, towards the red glow of low-energy light at its centre. The blue of her robes turned mauve, then a reddish purple when she finally stopped. Zak had his wand at the ready, not sure what he could do if something unexpected happened. Over at the stripped trees, Pierre Hefferman -- wizarding scientist at the LHC and steersman of the Hadron Dragons paddle team -- was crouched at the rim of the pit, watching, waiting, wand raised. Angelina picked something up, too small for Zak to see. But she waved, the _Lumos_ of her wand a beacon in the red-tinged dimness, and he could hear her satisfied shout from below. Good news, then. He straightened in relief, noticing only now how tense he'd been.

During the next hours, the three of them transformed the dense matter from the black holes into Floo powder, using a spell invented by Ignatia Wildsmith eight hundred years ago. In the triangular space between them -- Zak at the office building, Pierre at the trees, Angelina at the broken-up asphalt of the street leading to Geneva Airport -- small cubes of frosted silver lay strewn all around. With a swish of his wand, Zak moved some of them into the plastic cup he'd found in the debris from the supermarket.

The braver of the Muggle scientists came from the labs and watched them with awe written all over their faces. _Sugar cubes_ they called the stuff that Zak knew had to be so much more powerful than standard issue Floo powder. The name stuck and was quickly adopted by the wizards and witches who kept up the spell-work when Angelina, Pierre and Zak ended the shift and went back to their quarters.

Feeling exhaustion seeping through every bone, Zak summoned one of the long-eared owls from the LHC owlery. He wrote out his report, letting Harry and the team know what they had been able to achieve. It was a small victory, he knew, and not a lasting one. Underground, proton beams were still racing through the collider at light's neck-breaking speed. The Machine could only be shut down when time moved forward again. But Ignatia Wildsmith's medieval spell had bought them time. And odd as it was, with all clocks on hold, what they needed most desperately was _time_.

oOo

Bill Arthur Weasley strolled through Diagon Alley, looking for a gift for his and Fleur's fourteenth wedding anniversary. Their special day was still weeks away. Nobody could tell whether they'd still be alive then, much less whether they'd be celebrating at Shell Cottage with sparkling white wine and Molly's special vanilla-and-rose Love Cake. But Bill had flown in to London this morning in a defiant mood. Half the night, he and Luna had searched for the seventeen year-old son of the Montgomery's, who had disappeared without a trace on the Day The Clocks Stopped. They had been unable to discover any trace of his whereabouts. But no matter the job and the unnatural snowfall in June, Bill would get something beautiful and precious for Fleur today. He'd promised himself not to give it to her early. He planned to be alive and kicking on the anniversary.

There was a commotion at the corner of Knockturn, where a group of red-robed Aurors stood watch before a Thestral-drawn ambulance. Death had become a familiar sight these days, yet wizarding folk were curious by nature and a small crowd gathered in the street. Bill made his way through, as a bier was carried out of the derelict building. He stopped in his tracks -- death may have become familiar, but rarely was death such a gruesome sight. There were horrified gasps from the crowd around him. A dark-haired witch pulled her two young children forcefully away from the ambulance. Bill looked over the shoulders of a tall wizard before him. Death obviously had not yet been confirmed officially, for no shroud covered the inert body. But it was plain to see that no Draught of Living Death or Petrifying Spell had created an illusion of death. This fellow was dead, with bones showing under the rotting flesh of his cheeks and arms, where the threadbare clothes did not cover the grey, rat-bitten skin. His black moustache and hair were covered with spider-webs and what looked like mouse shit. Someone had shoved up the eye patch covering the man's left eye, revealing an empty, red-skinned socket. The only clean thing on him was a striking silver watch, far too elegant and expensive looking on the thick wrist.

"Who was he?" Bill asked the wizard in front of him.

"Piece of Death Eater shit called Macnair." The man did not take his eyes off the body that was now clumsily Levitated into the ambulance by the blue-robed medi-wizard. "Before the war he'd made a living executing dangerous creatures for the Ministry. Crazy maniac, if you ask me, with an unhealthy appetite for death. Lived in one of the rat-holes up above Terrortours' offices." He pointed towards the windows where a trip to Transylvania was advertised in murky, blood-dripping images. The tall wizard scrunched up his nose. "D'you smell it? They called the Aurors because of the stink. He's been dead for weeks, they say."

The doors of the ambulance were shut with a loud bang, and the wizard finally turned his face way to look at Bill. He opened his mouth to say more, but then stopped, taking in the scars running across Bill's face. "You're one of Potter's Curse-breakers, aren't you?" he said.

When Bill nodded, the man eyed him for another moment. "I hear Potter's all for _reconciliation_," he said, a bitter twist to his lips when he said the last word. He jutted his jaw in the direction where the ambulance was disappearing. "But this one? Good riddance, if you ask me." He put a hand to his cap and vanished in the dispersing crowd.

Bill stared after him. Thirteen years, and the seething hatred could still flare up, just like this. On both sides. Only yesterday, at the emergency meeting of the Wizengamot, a group of pure-bloods from old wizarding families had blamed the catastrophe on the Muggle-borns, demanding their wands be confiscated and they be forbidden to do any magic. Nothing came of it, fortunately, but Bill had seen more than just a few heads nod in agreement.

An insistent hoot made him look up into the grey sky above Diagon Alley. A huge brown owl circled in the air above him, flapping against the twirling snow-flakes. Bill held out his robe-covered arm for the bird to alight.

oOo

Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank had stayed the night at Hogwarts Castle, having visited the school for an evening of bridge with the Headmistress and a round of assorted portraits. They were missing some regulars, but this annoying bit about the clocks having stopped couldn't keep them from their weekly Thursday night get-togethers. Despite the catastrophe, most parents had left their children in Hogwarts where the last week of classes was approaching fast, with O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s in progress for the fifth- and seventh-years. But whether the Hogwarts Express would bring the pupils up from London to Hogwarts come September, was anybody's guess. There'd been several interruptions of their game when the portraits had to attend to emergencies. A Dragon Pox epidemic had hit Rome, and both Gunhilda of Gorsemoor and Mungo Bonham had been called to the _Ospedale Fatebenefratelli_.

Now Wilhelmina walked down towards the gamekeeper's hut, sinking ankle-high in the freshly fallen snow. She meant to bid Hagrid farewell before she Portkeyed back to Grimmauld Place. Portkeying may be wonky, but she was too old for brooms. Pity that the Ministry had closed down all the fireplaces. Nasty business, this. She had already Charmed her emptied cup from breakfast as a Portkey and was thus in a bit of a hurry. With none of the clocks working and Tempus Charms a ridiculous mess, she had to go purely on intuition at when her departure time -- she'd set it for noon -- would arrive and the Portkey would activate.

Dark clouds were billowing above the castle when she found Hagrid wrapped in his thick moleskin robes, gutting ferrets with an oversized butcher's knife. Tears were rolling down the gamekeeper's face. After years of teaching with him and sharing their knowledge of magical creatures, Wilhelmina knew that Hagrid would not cry over a bunch of dead ferrets.

"Buckbeak's gone," Hagrid called out, the moment he saw her stepping around the tall beans. "Witherwings, I mean," he said in a softer voice. "I've put his food out every night an' he's never touched any o' it. An' now he's not showin' fer his ferrets. They're his favourite. Yeh've not seen him around, have yeh, Mrs Wil?"

Fleshy leaves and vines covered Hagrid's pumpkin patch. The small orange fruits were hiding from the snow underneath the green cover. Witherwings? Wilhelmina thought hard about when she'd last seen the proud Hippogriff. She'd been down at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, checking on the Bowtruckles living in the birch trees. From there, one had a clear view of the meadow where the Hippogriffs spent their days. Had Witherwings been among the herd? She couldn't rightly remember. But come to think of it, she hadn't seen the storm-grey creature in quite a while. With a sickening sense of premonition she stepped closer to Hagrid, telling herself that the creature had simply flown off on one of his winged adventures.

"No, I've not seen him," she said quietly. "How long has he been missing?"

Hagrid shrugged and said nothing, wiping his eyes instead and smearing blood and dirt all over his face. Wilhelmina was a small woman; she barely reached up to Hagrid's belt. Still, she took his hand and tried to take the knife from him that he was clutching with shaking fingers. She would never have prised it lose, but Hagrid dropped it and it landed, point first, only an inch from Wilhelmina's left toe. Hagrid started to babble, apologising and sobbing at the same time.

"Since when, Hagrid?" Wilhelmina asked again.

There was still no answer, so highly uncharacteristic for Hagrid. He turned his large head and stared towards the line of trees behind the pumpkin patch. The expression on his rugged face was pained, his cheeks red from the biting cold. _He knows,_ Wilhelmina thought as she looked up into Hagrid's brown eyes.

"Since Sunday?" she asked softly.

Hagrid never looked at her when he nodded. It was what made him the best and the worst of expert on magical creatures -- this strange affinity to all beings, be they tree, plant, human or animal. Rubeus Hagrid, Wilhelmina suspected, felt kinship to even water and stone, fire and storm. Perhaps it was the giant in his blood. Or perhaps his heart simply was so big that all life found a place in it and stuck, unable to let go. To lose Witherwings was like losing a part of himself to Hagrid, a precious part that he'd been gifted, like magic. Hagrid had lost the Hippogriff once before, back when the creature had still been called Buckbeak and he had fought in vain for his life before the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures.

Helplessly, Wilhelmina patted Hagrid's robes, the moleskin rough beneath her hands. "We'll find him," she said, but her small voice convinced no one, least of all Hagrid who for all of his big heart could read the signs when he saw them. Their world had been hurled into a catastrophe of time. And Witherwings lived because time had been turned for him, once. It was too much of a coincidence, and from the look on Hagrid's face, he knew it as well as Wilhelmina.

There was a fluttering of wings, then Hagrid said, "There's someone sittin' on the fence fer yeh, Mrs Wil."

The large brown owl held on to the fence with one leg, the other was out-stretched in Wilhelmina's direction, a letter attached to it. She needn't look at the seal to know that the message was from Sirius.

"Harry will bring Buckbeak back," Hagrid whispered, his eyes following the owl that took wing without as much as a hoot once Wilhelmina had taken the letter. "Yeh tell 'im about it, Mrs Wil, about Buckbeak bein' gone since the clocks stopped, will yeh?"

Wilhelmina nodded. Turning towards the castle, she wondered how Harry lived with it -- this unfailing belief of the wizarding world that he would save them, again and again. Hidden behind the grey clouds, the misty disc of the sun moved slowly to its highest point in the sky, right above the Astronomy Tower. It was almost noon. Time to brave the Portkey transport to Grimmauld Place.

oOo

Liriel Joanna Potter leaned against the massive stainless-steel doors -- eight inches thick and brimming with wards -- that protected the strong-room in the main branch of _Potter & Sons_. Three months ago the clockmaker's vault been broken into, the wards dismantled by powerful magic. To keep up the façade for the Muggle clientele, Scotland Yard had been called, who in turn had automatically informed the Muggle insurance company. Liriel held a stack of Muggle paper in her hand, letting her gaze sweep alternately over the valuables stored in the opened deposit boxes of the strong-room and the paper.

Both the police and the insurance people had insisted on long lists of whatever valuables and documents had been stored in the vault. It looked -- from the official report by Scotland Yard -- as if the robbers had been interested only in Herkimer diamonds, used as oscillators in the precision quartz clocks _Potter & Sons_ was famous for. The soft-spoken Inspector suspected an inside job. For who else could sell Herkimer diamonds without drawing attention to himself?

But Liriel's gaze lingered on the two other items underlined in red. They had been stolen along with the diamonds -- accidentally, the Scotland Yard report said, or for sentimental reasons only. Item no. 367 on the list of valuables was a silver watch, with a rectangular face and diamond inlays. It had been a gift from a close friend, the son and heir of Denique Timepieces, the only other London watchmaker who could count as competition for Potters & Sons. Liriel hated to lose the beautiful watch, but it was the other item on the list that concerned her most. Item no. 671, described as a _hourglass pendant, approx. 2 inches in height, 3/4 inches in diameter_. She remembered the glittering silver powder within the glass, the silver chain attached to it. A trinket of extraordinary value, but no practical use, the Inspector had said, clearly at a loss as why anybody would want such a thing. Muggle ignorance. Ever since the destruction of the Ministry's precious supply, everybody in the wizarding world knew what the pendant was: the very last of the Time-Turners, given to _Potter & Sons_ by the Head of the Department of Mysteries, for safe-keeping.

Since Liriel had first seen the list, suspicion had been growing in her. As loathe as she was to publicly admit that the high-security vaults of _Potter & Sons_ had been compromised, she knew that she held a piece of information in her hands that could help explain the catastrophe that had befallen their world. The theft of item no. 671 meant that someone had the means to travel in time. To _turn_ time.

Upstairs in her office the large brown owl was waiting for her reply. Sirius Black had invited her to participate in an emergency meeting of the Order of the Hummingbird. Liriel knew what she would have to tell Harry Potter, that fierce young wizard who shared her family's name. Whatever had happened to their world, the reason for it could only be found in the past.

oOo

Draco Abraxas Malfoy stood in the middle of the room, Unshrinking goose-feather pillows and a duvet for his father's bed. The private rooms in the Janus Thickey Ward of St. Mungo's were spacious enough, but Draco had to Transfigure the metal hospital bed into a wooden four-poster and bring his father's writing desk and the Persian rugs to make the room habitable. It still was a far cry from the Manor's time-honoured elegance. Draco only hoped that Lucius was comfortable enough in the unfamiliar surroundings.

At first Draco had been offended, enraged even, when Granger suggested his father be admitted to St. Mungo's, for _observation and therapy_, as she'd put it so very smugly. Lucius Malfoy was neither ill nor insane! In fact, his father was saner than he had been in years. It had taken three hours of Granger's persuasive and oh so logical arguments before he agreed to move his father into the hospital for the time being. Looking around the room, well-furnished now and reminiscent of the Manor, but a hospital room nonetheless with the crystal night-globes and the faint antiseptic smell, Draco wondered if he'd made the right choice.

In the end it had been Potter who'd made him decide. Potter who -- for whatever reason -- had come strutting into Granger's office and suggested Draco set up the time machine at Grimmauld Place. _I'll have Kreacher prepare a room for you, too, if you're interested,_ he'd said, shy smile playing on his lips. Draco had been unable to resist the smile, the man, the offer to spend more time with him. The attraction between them was unexpected as much as undeniable, and it had flung Draco into a whirlwind of emotions that he hardly dared to make sense of. Since he'd touched the fiery tattoos on Potter's skin, he'd hadn't been able to get the man out of his head -- no matter his father's fragile sanity, the bloody snow and the fact that any moment their world could break apart under the onslaught of the fractured time-lines. Perhaps denial was the only way to deal with all of this. Denial and a wild desire like he'd not felt in years, for the most unlikely of lovers -- Harry fucking Potter. It was mental. Draco's lips formed a smile all by themselves as he remembered how Potter had touched him whenever possible, here in the hospital and later, in the Black library, where they'd set up the time machine.

He looked around one last time, to the _Prophets_ stacked on the desk and Lucius' morning robes with the Malfoy crest laid out on the bed. A heart-shaped piece of wrapped chocolate had appeared on the pillow, courtesy of St. Mungo's rather laughable Welcoming Charm. There was nothing more that he could do for his father here.

When he stepped out into the corridor, Lucius came walking from the staircase with Granger at his side. They were deep in conversation, heads turned to each other. In the dim light, Granger seemed older, a grown woman. Which was a ridiculous thought, really, because of course they'd all outgrown their youthful awkwardness. Had he not known Granger and met her somewhere in London, Draco would have taken her for a beautiful, powerful witch. There was no denying her magic; it was all around her. He tried to recall the disgust he'd felt at Hogwarts, mingled with burning envy of the Mudblood who'd bested him in each and every class, but he could not longer summon the feeling. What Draco remembered, vivid as if it had happened only yesterday, was a brown-haired girl writhing in pain on the Manor's floor and her screams that had haunted him for months.

In the corridor, Granger abruptly came to a halt, laughing at something Lucius had said. His father's deep voice sounded amused as he kept talking, responding to Granger's body as much as to her laughter. There was a confidence to his father's movements that Draco remembered from the time before Azkaban had broken him -- casual and compelling, with an unforced grace that Draco knew he'd never possess. He had thought that his father had lost it along with his memories. But here it was, bringing out _Lucius Malfoy_, a power behind the Wizengamot to be reckoned with, proud keeper of the Malfoy name and all that it stood for.

The woman and the witch in Granger reacted to his father's charm, standing a bit too close, face a bit too happy when Lucius smiled at her. And then Draco realised he was watching something that was not for his eyes to see. He turned quickly and walked away from them in the other direction, towards the tearoom. There was a dull pain in his chest. He'd always thought his father's brilliant smile was for his mother alone. But if it meant that his father became himself again, Draco would get used to seeing this smile directed at Granger. Not many people thought that Lucius Malfoy deserved his share of happiness, but Draco would do anything to see his father happy again, like he remembered, before Azkaban took all of this away.

"Mr Malfoy! Sir!" a voice called behind him.

Draco turned to see the blonde welcomewitch walking towards him, high heels clicking on the polished floor. The door to his father's room was closed. He and Granger must have gone in.

"Sir, could you come down to reception, please? You have an owl waiting for -- " Before she could finish, a large brown owl rounded the corner, flying low along the portraits on the walls. "I don't know how this obnoxious bird got in," the witch said irritably, "but private owls are not allowed in the Wards. Please attend to your correspondence in the reception area, Sir." She shot him a snotty look, turned on her heels and stalked away.

Clearly, some privileges had to be negotiated if his father stayed in St. Mungo's for longer. Not every owl was as insistent as this one, and if the Malfoy name didn't carry much weight anymore, the Malfoy Galleons would do the job. The owl had alighted on Draco's shoulder, picking at his hair to make him remove the letter that was tied to its claws. He recognised the Black seal immediately. Draco unfolded the parchment and read:

_Esteemed Time Master Draco Malfoy --_

_The worst case scenario happened in Geneva this morning. Members of the team were able to contain the threat for now, but as you are well aware, similar accidents can happen at any moment with no wizarding team near to prevent the worst. The Order of the Hummingbird convenes for an emergency meeting this afternoon. We invite you join us at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._

_Sincerely,_

_Sirius Black_

**There's some good news, too, Malfoy. Get your arse over here ASAP. **

**H.**

The last words were written in a smudgy, casual scrawl that made Draco's stomach clench in thrilling expectancy. Part was curiosity about what news Potter had received. But it was more: a sense of deep satisfaction that Potter had added a personal note to his godfather's officially worded invitation.

There was no doubt in Draco's mind that Black knew exactly what was going on between them. When he and Harry had set up the time machine, Black had joined them for a while, eyeing Draco with deep suspicion. Seated in one of the armchairs, he kept staring openly at the bracelet on Draco's wrist. It cost Draco all of his self-control to resist Black's not so subtle taunts. The cripple took him for nothing more than a pure-blood Slytherin Death Eater, and for all his mistakes Draco'd be damned if he ever be ashamed of his House and his heritage. When he told him that much, Black actually laughed out loud.

_Put him in Regulus' room, Harry. Perfect fit_, he'd said. And Harry had answered, _I already did_, with an expression in his face that Draco hadn't been able to read.

But it had shut Black up well and for good. Soon afterwards, he had stood up and limped out of the library. There'd been an awkward moment when Black stumbled and Draco had been standing close offering his arm for support. Draco knew the gruff thank-you was all the approval he was going to get from Sirius Black.

Careful to not unsettle the owl on his shoulder, Draco let his wand slide into his hand. Then he Apparated them both directly into the library of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

*** * ***

"Never thought you'd develop a penchant for Death Eaters' spawn." Sirius looked at Harry from the depth of his large leather chair, an eager glint to his grey eyes.

Harry stifled a groan. Not much went by his godfather and Harry had never been good at hiding his feelings. He just knew he'd been staring too much at Malfoy, ever since he'd Apparated into number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Almost all the members of the Order of the Hummingbird were present. The Old English Chesterfields, cosies and overstuffed chairs in the library were all occupied; Luna perched on one of the uncomfortable, straight-backed wooden stairs. Robards had come, desperately in need of a shave and a good night's sleep, accompanied by his flock of Unspeakables. The soft-spoken elderly witch was missing, and when Sirius had inquired about her whereabouts, Terence Higgs had paled. She had taken a cup of hemlock shortly after their meeting in the Department of Mysteries.

At the other side of the library, beside the gigantic globe of the wizarding world, Harry and Malfoy had set up the time machine. The fine golden chain swayed in a breeze that was blowing only within the hexagon of the copper platform. Harry kept staring over there, mostly because it was where Malfoy had taken a seat. He was talking animatedly with Liriel Potter, the two outside experts in the Order of the Hummingbird. Malfoy was impeccably dressed, in black robes that shimmered a dark blue with brocaded sleeves and collar. He looked so like and unlike the man Harry had met less than a week ago. The man who'd caressed his skin with an awe that had nothing to do with why people insisted on calling Harry their _Saviour_ years after the end of the war. Draco Malfoy -- a Death Eater's son and a Death Eater himself. And Harry couldn't stop thinking about him, wanted to touch him, kiss him, hell, to fuck him good. He wanted Draco Malfoy in his bed and in his team. Wanted Draco Malfoy, period. God, when had been the last time that he'd fallen so badly for anyone?

There was a soft chuckle from the leather chair, and damn -- Harry's prolonged silence told Sirius all he needed to know. He met Sirius' gaze and shrugged lightly. It was not as if Sirius would judge him. A small smile formed on his godfather's lips, half sad, half amused. The sadness had nothing to do with Harry's choices -- that much he'd learned in the years that they shared this house and the daily life with the team. The sadness was for Remus, just as everything in Sirius' life went back to Remus Lupin, his one great love, the one whose picture he still talked to when he thought no one was listening. Harry had once asked, but the answers he'd received -- and even more the answers he never got -- made him realise that it was best to leave that wound untouched. That they both loved men made things easier between them. It accounted for a kinship that went deeper than Sirius' promise to James and Lily to watch out for their son.

"Be careful with this one," Sirius said quietly.

He'd not said anything like this before, had never given Harry advice about whom he chose to fuck. This was not about Malfoy's dark past, and yet Harry understood why Sirius was worried. Malfoy was not just another Zak or Seamus or Huey or any of the other blokes that had shared his bed for a time.

"Hell of a time for it," Harry mumbled, eyes drawn irresistibly to where the fire was making Malfoy's hair shine a coppery silver.

Sirius put his hand on Harry's thigh, telling him to hold him back? Urging him an? Harry couldn't tell.

Just then there was sharp knock on the window -- the owl Sirius had sent to the Ministry had returned. Gawain Robards got up and let the bird in, taking a bundle of rolled parchments from its claws. The Minister for Magic hesitated a moment, then handed everything to Sirius. There was no official hierarchy in the Order of the Hummingbird, but by unspoken agreement Sirius was in charge of records and files. He had been the one to suggest they'd contact the Ministry Archives once it had become clear that what they were looking for was hidden in the past. With a gracious nod to Robards, Sirius broke the Ministry's seal, untied the piece of string which held the parchments together, then smoothed them out on the huge dark-wooded desk.

Harry turned to Malfoy and found him staring back. When their eyes met, Malfoy's lips twitched but he didn't look away. Hell, they hadn't even kissed and yet there were moments when it felt as if they'd known each other intimately for years. Like before, when the meeting was interrupted while they waited for the owl to return, at the sideboard that Kreacher had stocked with sandwiches, biscuits, tea, coffee --

_'You're clearly addicted to this Muggle concoction, Potter. This is what, your third cup?' Malfoy whispers at his ear, playful and warm, his presence solid behind Harry who pours himself a cup of coffee, no milk, no sugar, takes a sip of the steaming brew, its rich smell adding to the fire-roasted tang. Only when he feels the caffeine rushing through his blood does he answer. 'It's a wizarding drink, actually. A Sufi Seer discovered it.' Seconds pass before Malfoy chuckles, his hands coming to rest on Harry's hips. 'Well, Potter, soon you'll be teaching me pure-blood history.' There's heat where their bodies almost touch, sharp and burning like the coffee on his tongue. Harry cannot help but lean back into it._

"Witherwings."

Sirius voice pulled him abruptly out the memory, and when Harry looked up again, Malfoy was listening intently, hand curled around his cup of tea.

"Here's the minutes of his execution, taken by ..." Sirius' eyes moved to the end of a long role of parchment, "... one Robert Cromstock. Never heard of him." He mumbled to himself as he smoothed the parchment out. "Well, it says here, and I quote: 'In compliance with the decision of the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures the Hippogriff Witherwings, hereafter called the condemned, was executed on the sixth of June at sundown --'"

"But he was not killed. And his name was Buckbeak. Witherwings is just a cover name that Hagrid made up when Buckbeak was on the run. The Ministry never knew that name." Heads turned towards Harry in surprise and he realised that up until now he hadn't contributed much to the meeting. Mrs Wil nodded at him with a rather exasperated smile as if saying _Well, that's the bloody point, laddie_. Robards, the Unspeakables and Liriel Potter gave him puzzled looks. Harry quickly recounted how Hermione and he had gone back in time with a Time-Turner during their third year at Hogwarts. He felt Malfoy's gaze on him as he talked, dark and intense, as if he was hearing the tale for the first time. But he and everyone in the library must have read Skeeter's unauthorised biography of _Harry J. Potter_ where the events were presented in lurid details and epic breadth, Harry was certain of it. Hell, there had been excerpts printed in the _Prophet_ for fucking years!

A stolen Time-Turner, the dead body of Walden Macnair, the disappearance of the Hippogriff who according to official records should have been dead years ago -- the Order held the pieces of the puzzle in their hands. They discussed and discarded one theory after the other, with Malfoy adding suggestions whenever question of time and time-travel came up. Yes, it was possible, if extremely dangerous and complicated to do as big a jump back with a Time-Turner; no, he didn't think Macnair had come back and died only then. Not when considering the advanced state of decay the body had been in. Yes, he thought it plausible that a change as far back as sixteen years ago was responsible for the current catastrophe. Did he think that it was possible to turn back time that far in the past? Possible yes, but hardly probable. And on and on, until Harry was no longer sure what he remembered and what had in fact taken place all those years ago.

In the end it was Sirius who pieced it all together. "The date of the Hippogriff's execution -- June 6. This is no coincidence. Macnair must have got hold of the last Time-Turner and gone back in time. And I may just know why." With a swift move of his wand he had the parchment rolled up and flying from the desk towards Bill who picked it from the air like a fluttering snitch. "What do you think, Weasley? Your professional opinion."

Bill was the team's specialist for ancient curses which often were hidden within perfectly innocuous-looking artefacts. Harry shot Sirius a glance, to find out what this was about, but his godfather's eyes were glued to Bill's wand. He was performing what Harry could only guess was a complicated Revealing Spell. The brown-edged parchment unrolled all by itself, dropping all the way from Bill's lap to the floor. Instead of the orderly typed minutes from a few seconds ago, now Harry could make out stark letters of dark ink and a heavy seal of red wax.

"It's a magical contract." Bill waved his wand across the parchment. It gave a leathery rustle and a quiver, then flattened out again. "Nothing fishy about it. It's Cornelius Fudge's seal and he was the Minister back then. The parchment is the kind that was used back in the late nineties."

"Any sign of tampering? Could this contract be a clever forgery?" Robards asked. He sat back in his armchair near the window, hands clutching at his thighs as if he had to force himself to keep still.

Bill waved his wand again, casting a common Detection Spell. For a moment the parchment was enveloped in a blue light, but it faded immediately. "Nothing." He shrugged.

"So," Harry looked to Sirius, "what you're saying is that Macnair snatched the Time-Turner from the watchmakers' vaults, then went back to the exact day of Buckbeak's execution. He killed him, just like he did the first time. And what Hermione and I did never happened. Are you seriously suggesting that Macnair changed things a second time?"

"Yes." Sirius gave Harry a rather smug smile, his face tired but beaming with satisfaction, like always when he was able to solve a puzzle with the help of his books and records alone. "Walden Macnair finally fulfilled the contract that he'd entered into when he signed the official notice of execution."

"But why?" Gemynd Radford was voicing the very question that was on Harry's mind. Why would Macnair care, after what ... sixteen years? Everything had changed after the end of the war. Voldemort was gone, Lucius Malfoy was ill and powerless, and Fudge had long been replaced as Minister for Magic. Macnair had done his time in Azkaban, he'd been released years ago. What could he possibly gain from executing Buckbeak in the past? What was in it for him? And there was something else niggling in Harry's mind. _Thirteenth window from the right of the West Tower ... you will be able to save more than one innocent life._ He and Hermione had not gone back in time to save Buckbeak. Sirius --

"I wonder," Malfoy's voice cut into Harry's thoughts with precise articulation, the Time Master speaking, "what happens to an executioner who fails to fulfil a contract he has been magically bound to."

Malfoy's tone was casual, betraying nothing of what motivated him to make this statement. But the defiant jerk of his chin held an undercurrent of reproach that was lost on nobody in the room. Liriel Potter leaned away from Malfoy, an unconscious movement, to bring distance between her and the storm that was about to break lose.

The Minister cleared his throat. "Well, he could not work as an executioner anymore. Whenever he tried to sign another execution notice, his name would go up in smoke. I'm not an Unspeakable, but my guess is that Macnair's magic was severely compromised after he failed to execute the Hippogriff."

Higgs, the red-haired Unspeakable nodded. "That is correct. There's powerful magic woven into the parchment and ink of such contracts. The very words alone hold a power over everyone who listens when they are read aloud and then signs the contract. Being an executioner, Macnair probably was severely handicapped in all combative spells. I'd be surprised if he'd managed a _Crucio_."

Malfoy looked at no one in particular, just leaned forward a bit in his chair. He easily drew the attention of the entire Order to him. "Not be able to even do a _Crucio_," he said. "These sound like very compelling reasons for someone like Macnair to want to fulfil his contract, don't they? Or is there any other way, Minister, for him to get out of it?"

Robards squinted at Malfoy. "Only if the decree of execution was revoked. Officially revoked. Fudge would have had to sign it."

"And was the decree revoked?" Malfoy turned towards Sirius, all innocence but for the shaded look in his eyes.

The golden chain of the time machine swayed, throwing sparkles where the flickering light from the fireplace hit it. Malfoy kept staring at Sirius who didn't answer because no answer was necessary. As the silence grew longer and became uncomfortable, Harry remembered Malfoy -- a younger, smaller Malfoy with shorter hair and much less in control of what his face showed -- who had spoken so arrogantly to the proud Hippogriff. He remembered the malicious glint in Malfoy's eyes as he'd waltzed into Potions weeks after the accident, his bandages on display, when everybody _knew_ that the gash Buckbeak had torn into his arm had long healed. Whatever was between them now, Harry should have never let himself forget that Malfoy had wanted Buckbeak killed and Hagrid's head on a silver platter to boot.

"Your father would know now, wouldn't he?"

Malfoy spun around so fast that he toppled the cup of tea before him with his sleeve. Pain flashed across his face, pain that Harry recognised from the short talk in the Manor's Library when Malfoy had spoken to his father, to this other, confused and white-haired Lucius Malfoy. But before Harry could add something to soften the impact of his words, an expression settled on Malfoy's features, steely and unreachable, like Harry had never seen him.

"Are you implying, _Potter_," Malfoy said in his most disdainful drawl, "that my father is to blame for this catastrophe?" There was a commotion, as people straightened in their chairs. Gemynd Radford got up, her eyes bright with concern, but Malfoy didn't stop. "May I remind you that it was your cherished Headmaster who allowed under-age students to go back in time and tamper with events that had fulfilled a magical contract and, not to forget, _had_ already happened."

Harry was out of his chair, his vision blurry, wand in hand. The old reflexes were kicking in, an instinctual response to this tone of voice, this special brand of sarcasm. Malfoy watched Harry with a calm, amused smile, his long fingers up-righting the cup casually, as if they were discussing the bloody weather.

"Don't you, you especially, dare to say anything against Dumbledore." Harry hadn't spoken very loudly, but his words could be heard clearly over the shuffling and exasperated gasps. Radford and Luna were already standing, ready to jump in. But Harry's attention was all focussed on Malfoy whose customary sneer was in place as if they were right back in sixth year, glaring at each other across the Great Hall.

"_Do not let yourself be seen, do not change time._" Malfoy's voice was icy, drawl entirely gone. "That's the single most important law about time-travel. Dumbledore didn't think twice about putting himself above that law and letting you do exactly that. You changed time, Potter. My father may have been overreacting, but he did it to protect his son. So I, I _especially_, say, fuck, yes: if anyone is responsible for this catastrophe, it is your beloved Dumbledore."

Harry was faster than Luna; his wand at Malfoy's throat before anybody could react. "You won't insult Dumbledore. Not in my house. Not anywhere," he ground out.

"Harry ..." Luna was at his side, her hand on Harry's wand arm.

Malfoy's sharp chin trembled, but he did not move away from the pressure of the tip of wand. "And why not, Potter? You know, he never loved you like the surrogate father you wanted him to be. We were all just puppets in Dumbledore's show."

He held Harry's gaze easily, so bloody full of himself. How could Harry have let Malfoy touch him, how could he have ever wanted to kiss this immature, supercilious prick? Pink lips moved and something shattered in the hush that Malfoy's words left behind, something that made Harry lower his wand without meaning to. His knees went weak and he struggled for a moment to keep standing. Malfoy's eyes widened, he reached out to steady Harry. This, _this_ was what Sirius had warned him about. Malfoy was dangerous because he could push him into a flaming rage, because he could cut him where it hurt the most. And yet, yet --

"Now, Mr Malfoy, I daresay that was wholly unnecessary." Mrs Wil sounded like she always did, dark voice scratchy and calm. "Frankly, I expected better from a scientific mind such as yours."

Malfoy's eyes flickered over to their old teacher, his hands dropping away from Harry. He seemed startled, as if he was only now becoming aware again of the other people in the library. And then something happened that took Harry entirely by surprise: a blush spread from Malfoy's throat up his cheeks, colouring his skin a faint, fierce pink. He sat up straight, grabbed the tea-cup at its handle. He stared into for a moment, then emptied it with a quick gulp. His downcast eyes flitted up to Harry, who still stood, waiting.

"Harry, that wand is wholly unnecessary, too." Only now did Harry notice that Luna's hand had never left his arm.

With a thump his wand landed on the rug, torn from his hand not by a Disarmament Spell, but simply because Harry had let go. It was rolling forward, towards Malfoy, between his boots, underneath his chair. In one smooth move he reached down, retrieved it and handed it back to Harry who could only stare at the hazel wand, grip offered towards him, tip aimed at Malfoy's heart.

"Um, okay," Harry managed, taking the wand. "I mean, thank you."

When Harry sat down again, Sirius looked at him with a raised eyebrow, then shrugged. A deceptively casual gesture, when Harry just knew Sirius thought he was losing it, over a Death Eaters' spawn, asking with no words whether Malfoy was truly worth it.

Harry smoothed a strand of hair out of his face, ordering himself to calm down. He couldn't help but glance at Malfoy and their eyes met, but Malfoy turned away at once. His skin was still flushed, his body so tense that Harry wanted to reach out and assure him ... of what? That these last days meant something still, despite their past and how they never seemed to be able to get away from it?

Residue of magic sparked from the tip of Harry's wand as he cradled it in his hands. Whether his magic or Malfoy's he couldn't tell.

*** * ***

It was long after midnight when the last members of the Order of the Hummingbird Apparated home or went to their rooms in number twelve, Grimmauld Place. The Order had decided that two members of the Order were to be sent back in time, to remedy what Macnair had done. To save Buckbeak again. When Gawain Robards asked Harry whether he would volunteer to do the jump, he said yes, of course. Ever since Malfoy had given him the 'practical demonstration' of his time machine, Harry had known that the two of them would travel back in time together. Everybody else seemed to think so too, for there were no other volunteers. Malfoy put in a word of caution every once in a while; he clearly doubted their endeavour would succeed. _No one can know what will happen once time is turned again_, he'd kept saying but Harry knew they had to try at least. Just like he'd always known that, no matter what, he would have to try to defeat Voldemort. And he _had_ succeeded in the end.

Sirius lingered in the long hallway, keeping the black velvet curtains before his mother's portrait tightly closed. Over the years, the old woman had somewhat acquiesced to his and Harry's presence in the Noble House of Black. But whenever she spotted a stranger, she went into a screaming fit. Sirius was leaning heavily on his cane as he bid the Minister good-bye. With a tense nod Robards Disapparated from the middle of the hall.

"Let me Side-Along you up." Harry lightly touched Sirius' wrist. His godfather turned, his face drawn and tired but eyes sparkling with the excitement of the day. Sirius Black still lived for an adventure even if he was chained to this house and his dusty files.

"I'll manage, Harry." With his cane he pointed towards the half-opened library door. "You better deal with him in there. You two make up, make out, I don't care. But you need to get your act together. It's a big day tomorrow."

"Right." Harry squeezed Sirius' wrist and his godfather pulled him into a one-armed embrace. He was taller than Harry, his body warm and a familiar peppery scent around him.

"Go to him," Sirius whispered in Harry's hair. "If I'm not entirely mistaken, he's waiting for you." He chuckled softly as he limped towards the stairs and bade Harry a good night with a wink.

With a sigh Harry turned to where the shimmer of the library's crystal chandelier spilled into the dim hall. Malfoy had been busying himself with his time machine last Harry had checked on him.

_Malfoy beside him on the copper platform, his fingers on his skin._

The image came unbidden to Harry's mind. It made his groin tingle with an exquisite sense of expectation. He could barely admit to himself the giddy joy that coiled in his stomach because Malfoy hadn't just left after their fight. He'd been subdued for a while, but when the discussion had turned towards the magic necessary to make the time machine work, he'd explained it all with catching enthusiasm. Every once in a while he'd turned to Harry, searching his eyes for something, an apology or to be forgiven, Harry wasn't sure. Listening to Malfoy speak in his clear Arithmancer's voice, he had wondered whether it would always be like this between them: volatile, ready to explode at any moment, into bursts of hatred or desire as it swept through him now at the memory of Malfoy's touch.

He pushed the doors open and stepped quietly into the library. At a nod of his head, the doors silently closed behind him. Malfoy stood at the tall windows and stared out into the night, a dark presence within the bright shine of the enchanted candles. Harry had an odd sense of déjà-vu; Malfoy's posture was so similar to how he'd stood looking into the Manor's gardens. But then he turned his head and flashed him a smile. "Potter," he said.

To hear his name on those lips was enough to make Harry hard as he crossed the distance between them. He came to stand behind Malfoy and looked over his shoulder. Outside the clouds had parted to let a sliver of moonlight through. Snowflakes were dancing in the silvery air.

"Is your room all right? I can have Kreacher get another ready if you don't like the view." Harry inwardly rolled his eyes at how stupid he sounded. Hell, he'd about hexed Malfoy into smithereens just a few hours ago. And here he stood, discussing the bloody view and trying to be the perfect host that they both knew he'd never be.

"The room is fine, Potter." Malfoy sounded amused but moved a bit to the side, away from Harry.

"You're still here." God, he was going to make this hard.

Malfoy's eyes were drawn to the snow-covered tree shapes in the little park outside. "I was waiting to see if you throw me out," he said. "After that annoying display of your Gryffindor temper I wasn't so sure anymore if I'm not overstaying my welcome."

Harry had to give him this: Malfoy had grown up; he was so much better at talking these days. Still the scathing Malfoy aplomb, but not letting emotions colour his words. Just too bad for Malfoy that Harry'd grown so much better at _listening_. The forced blandness of Malfoy's tone told him everything he needed to know. He reached out and let his hand slide down Malfoy's back, from the sharpness of his shoulder blades to the enticing swell of his arse. Malfoy gasped breathlessly and Harry just knew he hadn't meant to let on how much Harry's touch affected him.

"Don't be an idiot," Harry muttered, surprising himself with how soft he sounded, how loving. "I want you here and it's not as if you don't know it." He closed the distance that Malfoy had created between them and leaned against him. His chest and groin touched Malfoy's back at the places where his hand had just been. He whispered, "I was hoping you'd not use that fine room of yours but join me tonight."

A light laugh was all the answer Harry got. Not that he needed anything more. He loved it when Malfoy laughed. Maybe he was not so bad at talking, after all. He moved his head against Malfoy's face so their cheeks briefly touched. Skin to skin, hot and scratchy with stubble, Harry wanted to kiss him so badly. "You," he whispered, his hoarse voice betraying just as much as his hard cock that was pressed against Malfoy's arse.

Malfoy relaxed and he pulled Harry's arms around himself, lacing his fingers through Harry's as they came to lie on his stomach. It was more than permission to pull him nearer and Harry did, couldn't have stopped himself had Malfoy resisted. Having him that close, so he could feel every breath Malfoy was taking ... Harry put his lips towards the soft shell of Malfoy's ear, traced it all the way to the earlobe with his tongue. A shiver ran through Malfoy's body and Harry just had to suck at that plump earlobe, suck at it hard, his first taste of Malfoy's skin.

A soft tug, and Harry realised Malfoy was guiding him towards his groin. He spread his legs a bit when he pressed Harry's hands against where his cock was hidden underneath robes, trousers and pants. Way too much clothing for Harry's tastes, but God, to feel the erect shape of Malfoy's cock under his hands. When he palmed the length of it, he was instantly rewarded by a sharp hiss and a forward thrust of Malfoy's hips. He spread his legs even wider, inviting Harry's to reach deeper.

Harry let his left hand move lower until he felt Malfoy's balls wrapped into layers and layers of fabric. If this was a test of endurance, Harry was certain to lose it. Malfoy's hips moved in small thrusts, he kept moaning, face half turned towards Harry who was badly tempted to just Vanish those damned clothes. But he knew he couldn't move away from Malfoy, not even to reach for his wand. He kept rubbing the ball of his right hand over the head of Malfoy's cock, over and over, hard. He needed to feel more of that heat, he wanted ... yes, there. Wet warmth was spreading on Malfoy's precious robes. Harry didn't stop, not when Malfoy was letting go of his control, hips thrusting wildly now, body writhing between Harry's arms. He was searching for Harry's mouth, lips sliding wet and hot across his skin.

"Want ..." he moaned but Harry shut him up. Finally he was allowed to take those thin pink lips in his mouth. He was wholly unprepared for the feeling. Harry considered himself an adequate kisser, from experience if not from an innate talent to let his lips express what he could not say with words. But Malfoy, kissing Malfoy, was different than anything Harry'd experienced. His lips were cold, no matter that his body seemed to be on flames. And hard, like Harry'd thought they might be, but responding to every one of Harry's licks and bites with eager, wanton submission. Harry had barely put the tip of his tongue to those lips when Malfoy opened for him. His mouth was warm and moist, tasting, inexplicably, sweet and smoky like the smell of burned caramel that had hung over Diagon Alley when Harry'd been there at Christmas for the first time.

He was so lost in kissing Malfoy that he'd barely registered how their bodies had slowed down, how Malfoy's head had fallen back onto his right shoulder. Harry found his one hand still touching Malfoy's cock, but the other was wrapped around his chest, holding him. Underneath the robes he could feel Malfoy's hard nipples. He pressed his flat palm against the right one, circling ever so lightly. Malfoy bucked up sharply and whimpered against Harry's mouth. Amidst the heat and spit and tongues sliding against each other Harry registered how heavy Malfoy was, despite his slender shape. Harry liked it, liked to feel the weight of a man against him. A vision flashed through his mind, of Malfoy, all pale and naked on top of him, riding his cock. Harry thrust forward helplessly, a harsh groan ripped from his throat, breaking their kiss. Their eyes met as they both gulped for air. Malfoy's were dark and huge, his face flushed, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Hell, he was making Harry so hard, so bloody horny. He wanted to fuck Malfoy right there on the library's polished hardwood floor. Then Malfoy arched up and pushed his groin violently into Harry's hand and Harry could no longer watch his face, or else he'd be coming into his pants like a schoolboy.

"Are you done here?" he whispered against Malfoy's throat. "Anything you need to do before we set out for our little trip into the past tomorrow? Because if you're done I'll Apparate us straight into my bed. I want those clothes off you." _I'm going to fuck you through the mattress_, he didn't say but was sure Malfoy understood.

For a couple of moments the only sound in the library was their heavy breathing. Harry felt the vein pulsing at the side of Malfoy's throat; he could barely hold himself back from biting into the pale skin, set on breaking it and drawing blood. Then Malfoy shifted, taking some of his weight off Harry's arms. He smiled at him, a brilliant smile. A bit sad, perhaps, Harry thought.

"Everything's ready for your journey, Harry." Malfoy turned all the way, moving his hands from Harry's chest down his sides until they came to rest at Harry's hips. "I want you in me," he whispered as he pulled Harry close.

_Harry._ His name sounded awkward as Malfoy said it, like his cultured, pure-blooded voice had to adjust to the common Muggle name. It made Harry smile how easily his name had slipped from Malfoy's lips. He wondered whether Malfoy had even noticed. But things felt safer between them when he was Potter and Malfoy was Malfoy. Safer, easier, more familiar somehow. More like a fuck he'd picked up at the Fortress and less like a spell that Harry was falling under, enchanted by this beautiful man in his arms. Harry reached for the wand in the side-pocket of his jeans, getting ready for Apparition, when --

"What do you mean, _my_ journey?" All of sudden Harry became aware of the reflection of the time machine in the dark window. The golden chain was a sparkling ribbon, the poles black slim spears pointing upwards into the night.

Malfoy stepped back, his eyes hooded. "I told you," he said.

"You told me what?" Harry missed Malfoy's body so much already, he felt so cold without him close.

"I'm not coming with you."

Sick, bitter pain twisted Harry's insides; it took all he had to not clutch at his belly. "Fuck you, Malfoy. Fuck you."

He had the nerve to smile at that. "I was hoping _you'd_ fuck me. I want you, Potter."

For a moment Harry was speechless. _I want you, Potter._ It made Harry want to slam Malfoy against the window-sill and fuck him so hard he'd be screaming _Harry_, wild with need. He longed to say, _I want you, I need you. Why are you doing this?_ But what came out was, "You're bloody mental."

Malfoy shrugged but somehow knew to keep his mouth shut.

"So ... you're _not_ coming with me." He couldn't look at Malfoy anymore, the way he stood there, face all pale, hands twitching at his sides. So bloody hot, so gorgeous. He'd go crazy if he couldn't touch him. Damn it, he hated, _hated_ him. "Remind me. When exactly did you tell me that? For I must have missed it when we were talking all evening about me _and you_ travelling back in time to stop Macnair and get this bleeding mess sorted out."

"I never said I would accompany you. Nobody asked me. You all just assumed I'd go with you." He spoke calmly, his voice gone all professional.

Harry wanted to slap him across the face and see his head smack into the window frame. "And it didn't cross your mind that you should tell the Order? You could have mentioned it, perhaps, when we were making plans that involved you. We were fucking counting on you." Harry couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice. He saw at once what it did to Malfoy, the way his chin jerked, then set firmly, as he struggled to keep himself together.

"It's between you and me, you know that, Potter," he said, voice too high and shaky. "If I'd said something during the meeting, we just would've had another bloody row. What with your temper, I wasn't sure I'd survive the next blow-up." He tried for a chuckle. "You're bloody scary with a wand." It came out all hollow.

"And you're a fucking coward." Every wizard and witch knew the power of words. Harry watched this one slice through Malfoy like a knife. He stumbled backwards, towards the window, lips pressed painfully tight. The look in his eyes was so lost, so desperate that Harry snapped out of his rage. This went deeper than he'd thought. _Lucius_, a voice whispered in the back of his mind.

"This is about your father," he said. "You're not going with me because of your father. Malfoy, hell, this makes no sense."

Malfoy shrugged sharply, his lips twitched. "I told you I won't help you. Salazar, Potter, I joined your bloody Order, I brought you the time machine. I did more for you than I ever planned on doing."

"Look --" He stepped closer to Malfoy, so close that they could easily touch. Harry wanted to, but Malfoy had his hands balled into fists and wouldn't look at him. "Your father's safe with Hermione. You've seen them together, they like each other. She'll be there for him if anything happens. And Malfoy, I promise you: _nothing_ will happen. We'll come back and everything will be like it was before." He brought his hand to the side of Malfoy's throat, waiting for him to allow the touch. Malfoy was rigid with tension but he turned his head a bit. Harry smoothed away strands of white-blond hair that had escaped from the collar of the robes. He reached around Malfoy's neck, pulling him towards him. "When did you plan on telling me? God, Malfoy, we were going to sleep with each other. How could you not talk about this? I need to do the jump tomorrow. And I cannot do it on my own."

Malfoy's hands were light on his hips. "None of this changes the Order's plan for tomorrow. You'll still be saving the world." He was trying for smug, but his body pressed against Harry as if seeking its warmth. "And you won't be alone." His voice was a dark, soft whisper.

Something cold and heavy invaded Harry's chest. It made it hard for him to breath. "Who do you think is going with me?"

Malfoy looked at him with unnaturally bright eyes. "Karkaroff, of course. He'll be here by midday tomorrow with the sugar cubes. I get the machine ready, run the tests, so we know it works. Then you and Karkaroff will go. I'll monitor the machine. You'll be back in no time."

Zak? "What does Zak have to --?" Harry was so taken aback that it took him long seconds to piece it all together. Only when Malfoy hissed in pain, did he realise how hard he had gripped his pale neck.

"Potter --"

"Shut up!"

Zak would never think of accompanying Harry, not with how things stood between them. It had to be Malfoy's idea, all of it. "You told Zak about this." It was not a question. Harry was sure of it.

Malfoy nodded, seemingly oblivious of the fury that burned Harry up inside. "I sent him an owl after you told me about the Floo powder spell being used to Transfigure black holes. You may not realise it, but this is rather advanced physics. I needed to get specifics before I could be certain that the sugar cubes would work for the time machine." He twisted his upper body away from Harry. "Potter, let me go."

Harry didn't think so. It felt good to have Malfoy struggle against him. He brought his mouth to Malfoy's ear, grabbing his hair so he couldn't move away. "And why the fuck did you suggest to Zak that he should be making the jump with me? Meddling, are you, Malfoy? Don't think you know anything about me and Zak." Harry pulled slowly, making Malfoy lean back his head. His hair felt like silk between Harry's fingers. A sudden tug, and a gasp of pain tore from Malfoy's mouth, all glistening pink screaming for red to seep from it. Harry bit hard into the dip of Malfoy's lower lip. He came away tasting blood on his tongue.

"Fuck!" Malfoy slammed his knuckles into Harry's Adam's apple. It hurt like hell and left him gasping for breath, and ah well, the git had learned to fight dirty. Not dirty enough, though, or Harry's windpipe would have suffered severe damage. No, Malfoy held back like he'd always held back in physical confrontations. Rage threw Harry in a red haze that made him react by instinct only. In Malfoy, though, it brought out the scheming bastard who'd hurl caustic insults that cut right to the mark. But Harry thought he knew now what it took to push Draco Malfoy over the edge.

Harry let go of his hair and with a hard shove slammed him against the window. Malfoy caught his balance, grabbing for the window-sill. Panic bloomed on his face. One moment of startled surprise was all that Harry needed. He had his wand in this hand before Malfoy even registered the danger. The buttons of his robes were ripped off by Harry's growled _"Diffindo"_. He clutched at the heavy cloth as it fell open and was yanked off him.

"Potter, do get a grip." His blazing eyes were the only indication that Malfoy was pissed off as hell. Harry felt himself shiver at the icy tone of his voice. "These were bespoke robes, designed especially to my wishes. I expect you to replace them with something of comparable quality. This is going to cost you."

Harry actually laughed out loud. He had Malfoy before him, clad only in shirt and trousers, his hair falling open to his shoulders. Involuntarily his gaze dropped, taking in the whole of the man. The bulge of a beautiful thick cock was outlined underneath the dark grey wool of Malfoy's trousers.

He had him spun around within one fast and furious instant, one hand gripping Malfoy's cock, the other untying the old-fashioned lacings of his trousers.

"Fuck you." Malfoy's cheek was smashed against the cold glass, his hands gripping the window-sill. His knuckles were white with the effort.

"Going to fuck _you_." Hearing the raw need in his own voice made Harry's cock jerk viciously. He tore at the lacings as hard as he could. They gave way with a sudden snap. Malfoy's trousers slid over his narrow hips and revealed a smooth round arse that Harry just had to cup and squeeze hard. Malfoy moaned against the window as a rose-coloured blush formed on the pale skin.

Harry felt saliva gather in his mouth. He was achingly hard, pushing against his jeans that had become so tight the stiff seams were pressing into his cock. Malfoy was thrusting into Harry's hand; gliding back and forth against the silk of his pants, a fast and regular rhythm. Harry gripped harder and Malfoy arched against the window, his mouth sliding across the glass, leaving a trace of hot breath. Harry could but stare at the smudgy ovals. The snowflakes out in the night were twirling around them. The urge to lick them off the glass became so overwhelming that Harry leaned in, shoving Malfoy even harder against the sill. His mouth was close to Malfoy's all of sudden; he could taste the sweetness of caramel, the tinge of salt and blood. He brushed his lips against Malfoy's, flicked his tongue across them. His balls contracted, he felt precome seep from the head of his cock. Malfoy was panting, wild and ragged, his hips thrusting frantically. Harry tightened his grip so Malfoy had to stop moving.

"Don't you dare come," he whispered. "You're not going to shoot before I'm in you."

"Then fucking shove your prick up my arse, Potter." Malfoy sounded desperate, slamming back at Harry, grinding against him. It was enough to make Harry push him away so he could reach for his zipper and take out his cock.

"Merlin." Malfoy had turned to look at Harry. His eyes were shining and black, glazed over as if he'd taken some Muggle drugs. He kept moving his tongue over the gash in his lower lip. Harry almost came just then, from seeing the hungry look on Malfoy's face. He swallowed as he kept stroking himself, spreading precome all over his length, watching Malfoy watch his twitching cock. When Harry slid back the foreskin to reveal his swollen head, Malfoy groaned loudly with need.

"Lube?" Harry choked out. He pulled Malfoy's body close, squeezing his slippery cock into the cleft of his arse.

"Don't need lube." Malfoy was wriggling and writhing, trying to get Harry to enter him. "Do it, Potter."

Harry didn't need to be told twice. He spat in his hand and rubbed the bit of spit in Malfoy's hole. It was loose and relaxed, the pucker widened as if Harry'd fucked him already. He slid in one finger, then another, when Malfoy growled at him, "Your cock, Potter. Skip the bloody foreplay."

There had to be a direct power line from Malfoy's lips to Harry's groin. He was not generally a leaker but now precome dripped constantly from his cock. Harry pulled back to find an angle that wouldn't hurt Malfoy much, then pushed into him.

He'd expected resistance; he'd thought he'd have to breach Malfoy by force. Harry'd never won anything from Malfoy without a struggle; there was no reason why he should let Harry fuck his arse for free.

But this was different. Harry felt his cock slide into Malfoy smoothly, like a blunt knife into a soft leather sheath, custom-made, a perfect fit. Something caught in his throat as he stared down at himself half-buried in Malfoy. He'd not been with anyone, man or woman, who'd been so open, so ready to allow him in. For a moment he swayed on his feet.

"Easy, Potter." Malfoy's whisper was so soft, shivering breath slurring the words that Harry barely understood. Malfoy's body relaxed fully underneath Harry, giving him permission to slam into him, all hot, yielding skin and flesh, soft moans and muttered words that could have been _Harry_, or _I want you_, or _You'd better fuck me good_. Harry moved forward when Malfoy slid backwards, taking in his full length. And Harry came, hard and unexpected, his release lashing through him like a whip. He let out a hoarse moan, saying Malfoy's name or an appeal to the Gods above. _Draco ... _ And he couldn't stop coming, couldn't help the inarticulate groans that spilled raw from a place deep within him.

Through a haze of sated desire Harry noticed Malfoy's fingers searching the window for purchase, leaving sweaty tracks amidst the ice flowers on the glass. His breath came in shallow, fast gasps; he was holding his body still with visible effort. It hit Harry then, that Malfoy hadn't come yet, hadn't had a chance to come because Harry'd shot his load moments after he'd entered him. His spunk was dripping down Malfoy's thighs, ruining his bespoke trousers.

The smell of sex and sweat was thick all around them, familiar and yet nothing like Harry had smelled before -- dirty, salty, hints of caramel and fire. The memory of entering Malfoy swept through him, that incredible openness as if Malfoy was giving himself over to Harry, body and soul. It made Harry's knees go weak and a gentle warmth coil in his belly. He slumped against Malfoy, had to hold on to him.

Malfoy turned his head, his breath hot against Harry's cheek. "Been a while?" he whispered, voice both teasing and breathless.

"Git." Harry gave Malfoy's cock a sharp squeeze. It was twitching underneath his palm, wrapped still in his pants, hard flesh underneath smooth, damp silk.

"Bastard," Malfoy hissed and bucked into the touch. He started moving wildly against Harry's hand, clearly unable to hold back any longer, and Harry didn't want him to. He wrapped his other arm around him, steadying him, then used his weight to push Malfoy against the window-sill, against his hand that found its way into Malfoy's pants, wrapped now around the naked flesh of his cock. Harry started stroking him for real, pressing against him, his own spent cock still buried deep in his arse.

They quickly found a rhythm, both of their bodies moving in hard thrusts. Malfoy braced himself against the window, hands splayed on the glass. His silver bracelet kept hitting the pane, the soft clinks mingling with his moans and Harry whispering into Malfoy's ear how good this felt, how bloody hot and that he was going to make him come _so_ hard. His left hand was roaming over Malfoy's chest and belly, the skin now exposed as the shirt was hanging lose off Malfoy's shoulders. His nipples were swollen and hot, screaming to be touched. Harry rolled the left one lightly between his fingers and Malfoy instantly lost his steady rhythm. His head crashed against the window, blond hair flying. His hips thrust in jerky moves that made Harry almost lose his hold on his cock that was slippery with precome and sweat. Harry wrapped his left arm around him, wanting to steady Malfoy, when his fingers felt skin, smooth and soft but less pliant to the touch. Scars. _Souvenirs_. Malfoy must have felt Harry's touch for he went all still. For a moment they both didn't move, just breathing hard, in and out. Then a shudder ran through Malfoy's body and his hands dropped away from the glass. Harry held him, cock spurting in his fist, as Malfoy arched back against him.

In those few fragile moments shortly after orgasm Harry watched their reflection in the window, their shapes blurry, blond against dark. Snow had gathered on the sill outside, glittering cold in the light of the library. Malfoy's spunk trickled down the glass, framed by the reflection of the time machine behind them. Harry moved his mouth across Malfoy's neck, his hair, the delicate line of his jaw. A sudden, painful longing filled him; to feel Malfoy's spunk on his skin, see it mingle with the blazing flames.

Malfoy turned towards him, the grey in his eyes warm, almost tender. "Harry," he said, and this time Harry knew he'd used his name deliberately, savouring its feel on his tongue. He leaned closer and kissed Malfoy, acutely aware the thin shape of his lips that were still lose and light, applying barely any pressure, just sucking at Harry's lips every once in a while. They kissed for what seemed long minutes, then Malfoy moved away with a sigh.

He disentangled himself from Harry's hold; reluctantly Harry let him go. Malfoy turned and leaned back against the window, let his head fall back against the frost-covered glass. There was a softness to his body that spoke of long hours spent at a desk or in a lab. Nobody would have called Draco Malfoy _fit._ Too skinny, too pointy, too pale. But none of that mattered. His shirt hung open, his trousers pushed down halfway his thighs, pants shoved away to expose sharp hipbones and a patch of dark blond pubic hair. His cock was still half-hard. But Harry's eyes were drawn to his chest, all pale skin, nipples pink and small for a man of Malfoy's height. Below them, a web of thin silvery scars.

Harry stepped closer and Malfoy's hands at once found their familiar place on his hips. His gaze followed Harry's hand, as he reached out and softly traced the scars.

"Come with me, Malfoy," he said.

A soft chuckle: familiar by now, but it still took Harry by surprise. "What?" he asked. "Don't tell me you didn't like it?"

"I did." Malfoy moved his hands lower, squeezing Harry's arse. "I do like it. But, Potter -- using sex to cajole me into joining you on your little trip?"

"It was worth a try."

That made Malfoy laugh and Harry knew he'd miss this dark and too-loud laugh if Malfoy didn't stay with him. He was still tracing the scars, waiting for his answer.

Silence flooded the old Black library when the echo of Malfoy's laugh had subsided. The flames in the fire-place had burned down, the house was quiet in the midst of the night. All sounds from outside where muffled by the snow that covered all the world and still wouldn't stop falling.

Malfoy took Harry's hand, pressed it tight against his chest. "You can't unmake those when we go back," he said softly.

Harry felt his lips broaden into a smile. "I didn't think I could."

"Good." Malfoy pulled him closer, close enough to have their bodies touch, skin to skin, tattoo of fire, tattoo of scars.

*** * ***

The sixth day of June, thirteen years after the infamous Harry Potter had vanquished evil Lord Voldemort in Hogwarts' Great Hall, was a day like any other in the big scheme of things.

Hermione Granger checked her watch. The forty-five minute session had been so enjoyable she had barely noticed that their time was almost up. Seated comfortably on the chair across from her was a tall, white-haired man, younger than her father but of his generation. Her new patient had been admitted only four days ago. _Lucius Malfoy._

After the daily sessions with him, Hermione was aware of the full extent to which Lucius Malfoy had repressed his memories, painful ones along with most others. Hermione suspected it had been a defence mechanism at first, to escape the grim reality of Azkaban. Confundus Charms were still a common means to keep the defiant prisoners in line, despite Hermione's and other mind-healers' efforts to get the barbaric practice outlawed by the Ministry. A blotched Confundus Charm could well have triggered Lucius' memory loss. And after his release from Azkaban, the bleak prospects left to the Malfoys after the war certainly hadn't helped him to recover.

Draco had told her that his father had not understood about Narcissa's death, that for all he knew, Lucius didn't realise that his wife had killed herself. But Hermione wasn't so sure. Already in her preliminary talks with him memories had surfaced. Some of them catapulted him right back into Azkaban, but others had been of Narcissa, even though he had yet to say her name.

Hermione had spent the last three days at St. Mungo's, sleeping in her office, on the couch that her predecessor had used for his blend of magical healing and psychoanalysis. She'd spent the nights researching, trying to find the best treatment for Lucius. She knew that behind her back, her colleagues were already talking. She was taking too much interest in Lucius Malfoy's case. Convicted Death Eaters usually were not given special treatment at St. Mungo's.

Hermione couldn't explain it even to herself and perhaps only Harry understood. He had picked up Draco both times that he had visited his father. And when Harry smiled like this at a bloke whom he couldn't stop touching, it could only mean one thing.

Was it the same with her? Was this why her eyes kept moving towards Lucius' chest, wondering how it would feel to put her hand there, to feel the beating of his heart?

"Miss Granger, Miss Granger," a dark voice said, and when Hermione looked up Lucius smiled at her, a brilliant smile that made his grey eyes sparkle. "A penny for your thoughts, my lady."

He had caught her again, for the third time during the session. She should feel embarrassed, but she didn't. She felt happy, insanely happy. Hermione looked at her watch again. Their time was over. First thing Monday morning, she would step down as Lucius' healer, suggest someone else to take over his case. She was certain he could be healed; all signs were promising. The two of them would take it slow. She would wait until Lucius was healthy and well again. Perhaps the spark between them would die a quick death, once he understood clearly who she was. But Hermione Granger was ready to take her chances.

oOo

Harry Potter was slammed down on a hard surface, his cheek pressed against something sleek and cold. He had his wand clutched in the right hand, his left arm was wrapped around a warm body. _Malfoy,_ Harry thought as he opened his eyes.

Blond hair spilled on copper that gleamed in the light that spun all around them. Grey eyes stared at him, a look of dazed bewilderment in them that turned slowly into relief.

"We made it." Malfoy pushed himself up, straining against the heavy weight that pressed down on them. He looked up to the tips of the poles and Harry followed his gaze to the golden chain that seemed held taunt by an invisible force, forming a perfect circle. Malfoy pointed his wand towards the black metal box and muttered a spell. The next moment, the column of light was gone.

They sat up which was easy now with the high gravity field shut down. Sunlight was streaming in through the tall windows of the Black library. There was blood on Malfoy's lower lip where the gash had reopened during the jump. Harry leaned forward and kissed it away.

"I can't believe we're back." He laughed with sheer joy. He and Malfoy had done it, had stopped Macnair from killing Buckbeak. They had watched, unnoticed, as Harry's and Hermione's younger selves had lead the Hippogriff away into the woods. They were going to free Sirius -- _thirteenth window from the right of the West Tower_. Buckbeak was to become Witherwings. Hell, he probably was grazing behind Hagrid's cabin right this very moment. All was as it should be.

"Are you all right?" Malfoy whispered. He sounded concerned and Harry pulled him closer.

"Yeah, of course. Everything all right with you?" Lose strands of Malfoy's hair had worked themselves out of his ponytail and Harry smoothed them back from where they had fallen into his face. The sleeves of his sweater hitched up and revealed tanned skin. _Tanned from the job back in May, in South Africa_.

Malfoy still stared at him, eyes dark with worry. Harry looked around. Something _was_ different. Where was the team? Hell, he hadn't expected Robards to stick around, but Zak was in charge of monitoring the time machine. He at least should be here.

There was a strange smell in the library that Harry vaguely remembered from years ago, when he'd been to number twelve, Grimmauld Place, for the first time, with Mad-Eye Moody. A sweetish, rotting smell like something had died in a hidden corner behind the books and Kreacher had not taken care of it.

"Harry --" Malfoy's voice broke. He swallowed, started again but Harry interrupted him.

"What the fuck is it? We're back where we started. Did something go wrong?"

"Your arm."

"What's with my arm?" Harry dropped the wand and held his arm into the sunlight. He half expected to see a shadow follow his movements but there was only one arm, unharmed, no scars, no --

"How can this be?" _Sparkling tiara before the snapping jaw of a raptor. Red ink on his skin._

"We turned time. Some things were bound to be different." Malfoy was trembling as he reached for Harry's arm, cradled it against his chest. "It will be all right. I promise."

Harry stared at him, then looked around again. This was the Black library, just as he remembered it. The shelves and shelves of leather-bound books all the way up to the ceiling. The gas-lights everywhere. The huge ancient globe that Sirius had told him had belonged to his great-grandfather who had been some kind of explorer in the jungles of the Amazon. The Chesterfields, the leather armchairs. Red Auror robes were draped over the back of one of them. Who had been here from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?

He pulled his arm from Malfoy's hands and stood up. Malfoy rose with him, standing close behind. There was a thick layer of dust everywhere, covering the tables, the sideboards, the shelves. It even danced in the air, sparkling in the sunlight as if powdered diamonds had been spilled in the library.

Harry stepped down from the platform. The time machine was the only thing that wasn't covered in dust. He walked over to the armchair with the robes and picked them up. The cloth felt familiar and when he found the Head Auror's badge, he wasn't surprised. Somehow he had known that these were his robes. They even smelled like him. He turned to see Malfoy stare at him, still trembling, arms crossed before his chest.

"I guess I'm with the bloody Aurors."

Harry dropped the robes and stepped towards the window. Through the smear and grime that had collected for years, it seemed, he could see the little park, lying peacefully in the light of a brilliant June afternoon. At least this hadn't changed. But something had, something --

Malfoy was at his side, their shoulders touching. "Take it easy, Potter," he whispered. "It will all become clear."

Harry spun around, shoved Malfoy against the shelves. "Are you living here with me?" he screamed, couldn't help screaming because it was too fucking quiet in the house, too fucking -- "Someone lives here with me. Someone ... does." The floor seemed to shift and Harry stumbled, fell against Malfoy who caught him.

"Harry, he's not here. Do you understand me? Sirius is not here."

_Sirius._

oOo

Harry didn't remember how he made it up into Sirius' room. He seemed to have passed an old, splintered grandfather clock that had been shooting red metal bolts at him. He could feel the pain still where one bolt had hit him in the jaw.

There wasn't much in the room besides the four-poster bed. The empty frame of a picture hung on the wall. In the corner Harry had discovered the skeleton of a small animal with part of its fur still attached. Inches of dust, spider-webs and mouse droppings covered the floor. The smell of a large animal hung in the air, pervaded even the damp linen and pillowcase that Harry had buried his face in.

When he closed his eyes, he could almost feel Sirius' presence in the room. He could see in his mind so clearly the cluttered desk, Remus' watch always somewhere, on the window-sill, hidden underneath rolls of parchment. Gods, Harry could smell Sirius -- peppery and warm and sometimes, when he wanted to impress, a dash of that old-fashioned spicy French perfume he liked so much.

Someone was coming up the stairs, with a lighter step than Sirius and not limping. The door creaked and moments later someone sat on bed beside him. Cool hands touched the spot on Harry's jaw where the bolt from the old clock had hit him.

"You were right," Malfoy said, "Bill Weasley is a Curse-breaker at Gringotts. Granger told me."

Harry didn't open his eyes. He'd lain in Sirius' old bed for hours now, perhaps days. He remembered that Malfoy had brought him a cup of coffee a while back. He hadn't looked at it. If he never opened his eyes again, if he never left this bed, he could stay here with Sirius' ghost, imagining his smell, his eyes, the way he held his cane, his room as it had been. He could be with Sirius forever, just like Sirius had been with Remus.

"How is your father?" he asked, eyes still closed.

"He's lost all his memories again. But Granger is convinced he will make a full recovery. You told me to trust her. That's what I'll do."

His fingers trailed over Harry's throat and shoulder to the one tattoo that was left on his body: the winged lion, red tongue lolling out between sharp fangs, its tail scaled like a dragon's.

"Malfoy." Damn it, Harry couldn't talk to him without seeing him. Malfoy was not a ghost.

He turned his face from the pillow and opened his eyes. The room was hidden in twilight, Malfoy's hair the brightest spot. His eyes lit up when Harry looked at him. "What do you think?" Harry said. "Can we lure Bill away from the goblins and make him join the team?"

*_ The End _*

The week ... stretched across two universes, the one with Sirius in it, and the one without.

_Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_


End file.
